

















V 

o o' 










» V#' * ^To ’ " <.0 ’ . 

A" ^ ctBi ^ ^ /\ ® 




0 ,*^*^ o v//'-^^\\v' -vY^* ' Sr^iiii;^ ■■ -S 

' . r ' « « ' " " " c ^ ’^ •' >?^ ^h, ' " " - 0 ' X 

-? -Cp .'6 b. _s-i^ ^ .J/ 


'O 


A' 



\ 0 °<. 





c* ^ 
o . ^ 

■ "■ o> »' •». 't 
>io cA"' 



'^oo'* 


9 I ' 




V V , ^ ^ 

v* ^ 



.0 




rf>. 





« •'^4 ^ ^ 

^ '” cpv’"'* 



A 


<\ 




•/ /» I 

(/ n \ 


■\ 







‘X V 

^ o' 



.g 





i> 

■%. ’-. ...^^ ,. 

-O . . , >• ,\v ' . ■, s o ’ Jp .„%'■*. 

z : i 


V < 



\ / 


-0^ V 


,/■ 


*> 



‘oo^ 



, '^-t. 

% 0 °'.'! 



'^O o' 




<t r \0 ^ 

0 \'' > '^° o'* .'•»/■ '^ 0 \'' ’' 


c 5 >. 



*”°- . - -. ,.. 

. 

”, ■=%:. '^^i/K^ c'^'*' “ 

* y ..^ ^Mp/ '' C 3 ^ O 

" ^IP ^ '- ^ ;y ^ 

c^ A , y^y ^ ^ -A 

A "^vTTs" <" ^obA .•\ 

/ !r * ^ A c.o' 







■'> N o ■ 

. 0 ^ r » A C‘ * 

*AllA= 'er 


A‘ </>. 


^ 'i^ . I g 

o. ^ 0 ' . <* '• ® 


0 ty \ 



S' 




1. 





* 4 

^ rvO O ^ a • <P y ^ r 

ko’ ^0 °,^. *•■'” ^s*", 










. > s ^ / 

\' ^ ' A' 

- .V 

,S ,(3 ^ ^ 0 ti i. ^ \^ 

v^' 


^ ^ g \ ^ ^ \> 

•"' '^' v' ''''^'-' 

•c^ <1 -7i , ^ ^/flm^ X 



ov ^ 0 

« ^A/A ® 

/> 




✓ ^ 


<*' '> 

-v 


y 


fe 0 
< 

'% 



-= 


\- ,0^ ^ 


Cr ti 


^ ^ ,v 

z Y ^ 

.y - 

' qV^ <> V. 1 fi ^ 
r ^ N "/ -CfO 



0 ^ O' 

























0 


THE 


SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


STORY OF THE MOUNTAINS. 


WILL 


BY 




A L L E NX VA<?7^ 


“But how the subject theme may gang. 
Let time and chance determine; 
Perhajos it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps turn out a sermon.” 



' 'i 

'V 


PRESS OF 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 

1886 . 


(Z 


^213 


Copyright, 1886, by Will Allen Dromgoolb. 


<l lfsTE:RHOtYPF;RSflNPPR^h?r^S^ 


THESE PAGES ARE 


i 


cfticaM 


IN GRATEFUL AND KINDLY REMEMBRANCE 


TO 


ONE WHO HAS BEEN A FRIEND FROM MY CHILDHOOD, 


JOHN WILSON THOMAS, 


OF 


NASHVILLE, TENN. 




PEEFAOE. 


The design in presenting this little volume to the 
public is not to startle with a thrilling romance. 

Many of the scenes and events described will be 
recognized by former friends and sojourners in the 
Cumberlands. Indeed, so familiar are some of the 
incidents related, I have seriously considered the pro- 
priety of asking permission before presenting the chap- 
ter of summer events for public perusal. 

Some, I know, will be glad to welcome the old 
familiar faces, and to revisit former pleasure haunts 
through these pages. 

I have attempted to shun no criticism, and striven 
for no praise ; but have merely collected the various 
bits of romance and adventure that came under per- 
sonal observation, and now present to each actor the 
part he played in the drama. 

“ The dew is on the Lotus 1 Eise, Great Sun I 
And lift mj leaf and mix me with the Wave.” 

Edwin Arnold. 


Mubpreesboro’, Tennessee, May 1, 1886. 


1 * 


6 





CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER ^ PAGE 

I. — Starting 9 

II. — On to Sparta 14 

III. — The Hero of the Calf-Killer . . .24 

IV. — Old Times in Tennessee .... 33 

V. — “ Ghosts that guard Bon Air” . . .52 

VI. — Adventures 63 

VII. — Blue Spring 69 

VIII. — At Clarktown 79 

IX. — Looking Backward 88 

X. — The Old Stage-Stand — Beckwith’s . . 94 

XI. — Fun in Wild-Cat Cove 120 

XII. — At Doe Creek 132 

XIII. — “ The Old Meetin’-House on Devil’s Creek” 154 

XIV. — In Secreto 164 

XV. — In the “ B’ar Deestrict” .... 167 

XVI. — New Scenes 176 

XVII. — Under the Shade of the Trees . . . 189 

XVIII. — O’er Mountain, o’er Forest . . . - . 197 

XIX. — The Devil’s Kace-Tracks .... 216 

XX. — In a Highland City 224 

XXI. — Behind the Clouds . . . . . . 234 

XXII. — On the Heights 242 

XXIII. — Cloud-Building 247 

XXIV.— Trumps 254 

XXV. — To Lover’s Leap 261 

XXVI. — Stolen Fruit 270 

7 


8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXVIL—“ Salvation’s Free 285 

XXVIII.— “ Dan to Beersheba” .... 295 
XXIX. — “Pleasures are like Poppies Spread” . 316 

XXX. — “A Daniel come to Judgment” . . 324 

XXXI. — Sights and Sounds 332 

XXXII. — At Stone Door 344 

XXXIII. — Forgetting 363 

XXXIY.— Marching on 372 

XXXV. — Xew Scenes Again 377 

XXXVI. — Among Georgians 382 

XXXVII. — PvOMANCE . . . . ' . . . 393 

XXXVIII. — The Legend of Sunset Kock . . . 402 

XXXIX. — To Forest Point 413 

XL. — Long Ago 424 

XLI. — After Storms 429 

XLII. — Good-By 437 


1 


THE 


Sumy Side of the Cumberland. 


CHAPTEE 1. 

STARTING. 

Better a single drop of pleasure 
Than to possess a hogshead full of wisdom.” 

It is settled, — without my say so, and against my 
S wishes ; it takes a man to do a thing like that. It is 
2 settled, and cannot be undone, so I have determined to 
I make the best of it; it takes a woman to do a thing like 
^ that. We are going, that is something, though I told 
I Bob time over again it would spoil our summer ex- 
cursion if he invited a half-dozen Yankees to join the 
party. But he would not listen to reason : a man never 
I does if it is a woman who affects the philosopher, unless 
I she is his wife ; a married man knows the weight of a 
woman’s opinion. 

But I am not Bob’s wife, I am only his sister, so 
j. really there is no obligation resting upon him to con- 
» suit me in the matter of a summer excursion. I 
£ promised to be governed by his wishes and pleased 
t with his arrangements. A foolish thing to do ; as if 
f one, and that one a woman, can bo pleased with some- 
^ 9 



10 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

thing which does not please in the least. I do not like 
the arrangement at all, and I say so, until I find I can- 
not alter it in the least, then I determine to make the 
best of it; and I am glad at last that I did accept the 
situation. I am glad that my brother exercised his 
own judgment and wishes ; although when he told mo 
what he had done I saw no prospect of pleasure in an 
excursion with a party of Yankees^ and that excursion 
to be an entire summer in the wilds of the Cumberland 
Mountains. Any other mountains in America would 
have promised something, — some fine scenery, some 
gay resorts, at the least some hope of thrilling adven- 
ture ; but the Cumberlands ! they are nothing but rocks 
and hollows and spurs and coal-pits and iron-beds and 
dens for half-civilized moonshiners ; so I told Bob, but he 
insists that our own home country is the best, and says 
there is no fairer land so far as beauty goes this side 
the Atlantic. He has never seen the country on the 
other side. There may be something better in the old 
world, but he doubts it ; and then he urges the wonder- 
ful advantages of the Cumberland. “There is natural 
grazing to tempt the most fastidious cattle that ever 
browsed ; and coal veins four, five, and sometimes six 
feet in depth. There is iron, fruit', scenery, and ” 

And there I put in, — a woman wants some say so. I 
remind Bob that I am neither a cow, nor a sheep, nor 
a horse, and hence am not on the search for grazing. 

Moreover, I don’t expect to bo a coal-digger, a dealer 
in pig-iron, nor a planter of vineyards. 1 urge many 
good reasons why other mountains are preferable, but 
it is a waste of breath. Bob has invited the Iowa cap- 
italist to join us, and he has agreed to do so. Bob “ felt 
it to be his duty as a true Tennessean to show up the 
country,” he said. “ Then why do you choose the worst . 


STARTING. 


11 


side?” I asked him. “ Would you like to go to the West 
Tennessee bottom-lands for a summer excursion ?” was 
his answer ; and I told him “ I supposed that would, 
in all probability, be quite as agreeable as the East 
Tennessee highlands,” but, as I said, it was a waste of 
breath. 

Bob had his way, as a man always does, unless he is 
a married man ; and he wrote to his friend Major Craw- 
ford at Des Moines that we would join him in mid- June 
and go immediately to the Cumberlands. “We will lay 
out no special route,” he wrote, “ other than our busi- 
ness requires. We will be governed by our inclinations, 
and our inclinations will help us to find the sunny side 
of the mountains. We will begin at Sparta.” 

“Bob Courtney,” I had exclaimed, when he came to 
this part of the letter he was reading aloud for my ap- 
probation (it is like a man, to ask for approbation when 
a thing is settled), — “ Bob Courtney, you are my brother 
and my guardian, therefore I suppose I am in duty bound 
to respect your opinion ; still, I should like to know 
if you call Sparta the sunny side of the Cumberland 
Mountains?” And he laughed, and answered, “No, sis, 
I don’t call Sparta any side of the mountains, but one 
must have a starting-point.” “ Then we are to leave 
the railroad?” I inquired; and my brother said, “Cer- 
tainly ; what do you expect to find along the railroad?” 
“Civilization,” was my reply, as my last hope of a 
happy summer died. It is dreadful, the thought of 
burying oneself in the Cumberland Mountains for an 
entire summer, and that too with a party of Northern 
capitalists who will bore us to death with their calcula- 
tions and “ guessing,” and war reminiscences and pa- 
tronizing sweetness. 

There is but one comfort in the entire programme: 


12 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Blanche McChesney is to be one of the party, — bright, 
beautiful Blanche McChesney. It can never be entirely 
dull where she is, for she carries sunshine with her. She 
had been my school friend once, but was called home 
by the death of her mother, and did not return. We 
had never met since, but I always remembered stately, 
beautiful Blanche McChesney, with her fair face and 
crown of yellow hair that looked like spun gold when 
the sun touched it. 

I was a child then, but thirteen, and she a tall, slen- 
der girl of seventeen. I wonder if the intervening 
years have altered her; I wonder if she will remember 
the brown-haired child that used to fall asleep over 
“Bingham’s First Lesson in Latin” and not wake until 
the girls were leaving the study hall, and, maybe, 
would have still slept on but for the kindly tap on the 
head when she would pass the sleeper’s desk. Beauti- 
ful Blanche McChesney 1 and so we are to meet again, 
you and I. 

Bob wrote the letter, — contrary to my judgment, 
however : I am nineteen, and quite capable of giving 
advice if I ever shall be. I told him, when he in- 
timated that my judgment was not altogether beyond 
question, “a fool at twenty will be a greater one at 
forty.” 

I like to emphasize that letter, because the sending of 
it made an impression on more than one destiny. In 
due time the answer came : the family would be pleased 
to join us, or, rather, to have W5 join them for the summer. 

The family consists of the major himself, his wife, 
his “only son Lincoln,” and their adopted daughter, 
Blanche McChesney. 

Two features of the letter aifect me unpleasantly. 
One, how Blanche McChesney, the independent South- 


STARTING. 


13 


ern girl, could allow herself to become the adopted 
daughter of a Northern capitalist. The other objection 
is still graver, in that it consists of “ my only son Lin- 
coln.” Only sons are failures always. Providence in- 
tended creation to run in pairs; but to think of an 
‘‘ only son Lincoln” for a summer pastime I Of course 
he must be related to the dead President, a direct 
descendant of Pocahontas also, in all probability. They 
tell me he is twenty-three. This is a relief. It is 
pleasant to know my travelling companion that is to 
be was not ushered into the world at a moment when 
the hiss of sic semper tyrannis"' had just opened still 
wider the bloody breach between two sections of an 
angry nation. 

The name was bad enough, to be sure, but since it 
had not been bestowed as an olfering to offended pa- 
triotism, one can almost pardon it. 

And June has come at last, with its birds and brooks, 
and hedges of June roses. 

The valley is full of the fragrance of sweet clover ; 
the wheat has the sweep of amber in its long, full- 
grown beard. Butterflies with wings freshly dipped 
in yellow gold-dust swing listlessly over the flower- 
beds, and the honey-bees are hidden all day in the 
roses’ bosom. The magnolia blossoms, pale and creamy, 
nestle under and among the crisp, green leaves that 
rustle and tremble when the odorous South wind stirs 
the majestic boughs of the crown-tree of the Southern 
forest. 

And with the coming of summer we prepare for 
our excursion in the mountains : “ the sunny side,” Bob 
says ; as if any land could be sunnier than our own 
beautiful valley. 

The day of starting has come all too soon : we are 
2 


14 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


actually waiting upon the platform to welcome the 
incoming train that shall bring our fellow-travellers. 
Hastily I turn the matter over in my mind, and for 
the hundredth time review the unpleasing prospect. 
I see plainly how it will be : Major Crawford must, to 
be sure, wait upon his wife. Eobert will naturally take 
to Blanche, while I shall fall to the company of the 
dreaded “only son Lincoln,” the Yankee. Pleasant 
company he will find me. I begin to recklessly frame 
ideas of revenge upon my unknown companion for 
presuming to spoil my summer; but before I have 
planned my mode of procedure the train sweeps in, and 
amid the noise and confusion we hasten aboard to meet 
our fellow-travellers. 


CHAPTEE II. 

ON TO SPARTA. 

“ Except wind stand as never it stood, 

It is an ill wind that turns none to good.’* 

We hold a council. Major Crawford takes the chair 
hy right of age. Miss McChesney takes the floor by 
right of sex. 

“As I understand it, two questions agitate this hon- 
orable body : to wit, route and mode of travel. Am I 
correct, Mr. Chairman ?” 

“Correct,” responds the chairman from the top of a 
big zinc trunk on the platform of a railroad station ; 
or rather from the bottom of a trunk, for, according to 
railroad baggage regulations, the trunk has been pitched 


/ 


ON TO SPARTA. ^ 15 

from the car to the platform, helter-skelter, hit or miss, 
bottom up until the next tumble should right it. 

“ Proceed, Miss McChesney. So far your surmises 
are correct.” 

“ I congratulate you on a first success,” laughs Lin- 
coln. 

“Young man, reserve your congratulations until 
they are needed, and give your attention to that band- 
box you are crushing and to the poodle-dog trying to 
attract your notice. Strange how dogs will take to 
dogs.” 

“ For instance ?” he interrupts. 

“Mr. Chairman, I believe I have the floor.” 

“ The platform,” corrects Lincoln. 

“Order I order!” cries Eobert, rapping vigorously 
with his umbrella. “ The lady from ” 

“Never mind where, she is from, she is going to have 
her say,” replies Blanche. 

“ To be sure she is; she is a woman,” Lincoln retorts. 

“Silence!” commands the chair. “People on the 
upper platform are beginning to look our way.” 

Blanche continues : “ Mr. Chairman, you are doing 
this State with an idea of investing, possibly of loca- 
ting?” 

“ Yes. Several reasons suggest the propriety of this 
excursion ; business, a love of the beautiful in nature, 
and ” 

“ And dyspepsia,” saucily suggests the figure on the 
bandbox. 

“ Mr. Courtney, is there no law in Tennessee for the 
suppression of nuisances ?” asks Blanche. 

“ I am not posted on the law which regulates a nui- 
sance like this,” he answers ; “ however, I will say we 
have three lunatic asylums.” 


16 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ And all crowded ?” Lincoln inquires. 

“You will find your place,” replies Blanche, “ if you 
will only be quiet and let us determine upon something. 
From several signs I notice, I am convinced that little 
box of a train on the side-track will start somewhere in 
the course of an hour.” 

“ Shall I inquire where it will start ?” asks Lincoln, 
as he rises and seizes a hand-pocket. 

“ You will sit down and keep quiet,” she commands, 
and then continues with the discussion of the route to 
be taken. 

“As I understand it, Mr. Chairman, you are not fully 
determined upon the investment you will make. It 
may be in coal, cattle, iron, lumber, or in real estate. 
You are to give the summer to prospecting, travelling 
slowly, to allow yourself leisure for investigation, and 
at the same time affording your family a pleasant sum- 
mer sojourn ; only, you are determiped — obliged is 
possibly the better word — to visit the mountains be- 
yond Sparta. Now, I suggest, as there is no railroad 
across this part of the mountain, and we shall be 
forced to travel in carriages ” 

“Wagons,” interrupts Lincoln. 

She takes no notice of the interruption — “or on 
horses ” 

“ Wagons,” persists Lincoln. “ Courtney told me so.” 

She raps him upon the head with the handle of her 
parasol and continues : “ Being forced to abandon the 
railroad ” 

“ Since the railroad abandons us,” puts in Lincoln. 

“Mr. Courtney, if you will gag that young man until 
I have finished I shall be grateful. Mr. Chairman, you 
are incompetent to preside over a business meeting. 
You have no sense of order. Now, all I intend to say 


ON TO SPARTA. 


17 


— and I will say it before I am again interrupted — is, 
that we would best take the hard part of the trip, the 
rougher part, before the really warm weather sets in.” 

“ That is a sensible idea,” agrees the chair. 

“ It is never intensely warm in the mountains,” says 
Bob, “ though I, too, agree to Miss McChesney’s pro- 
posal. We will not feel inclined to take this trip after 
we have worn ourselves out. We shall see some fine 
scenery, some wild country, and some queer people, but 
we shall encounter inconveniences in travel. I have 
been there before. I think we would best give our first 
Aveeks to this part of the excursion. What is the voice 
of the party ?” 

“ On to Sparta!” cries Blanche. “We will look no 
farther beyond, nor lay out any rules with which to 
torment ourselves. Buies are a burden. Every school- 
boy who ever multiplied his numerators and denomi- 
nators can testify to the 'truth of that assertion.” 

“ On to Sparta, then !” chimes Bob. “ We will do up 
the Calf-Killer, explore the mysterious windings of Lost 
Creek, sing love-songs upon the wildest banks of the 
Caney Fork, and when we shall have tired of this mel- 
ancholy madness, we will ‘ Fold our tents like the 
Arabs, and as silently steal away.’ ” 

“Not if there is a woman in the crowd,” says Lin- 
coln. “ Silence has long since been stricken from the 
female dictionary. Speech, and a good deal of it, is 
eminently characteristic of the female creation. Even 
the fowls which cackled the impending doom of Borne 
were females.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“Because they were geese,” he replies. “Not a 
gander is mentioned as having raised his voice in the 
historic quack.” 
h 


2 * 


18 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


“ What does this go to prove ?” asks Blanche. 

“ That the birds were geese,” he replies. 

“ Courtney, that one box-car has an air of bustle, as 
if it seriously contemplated starting,” says the major. 

“ Get your traps, ladies,” Lincoln calls out. “ Mother, 
give me the lunch-basket. What is the matter, 
Blanche ?” 

‘‘I am hunting for my grip. Now, on to Sparta! 
Mr. Courtney, carry that box for Mrs. Crawford, and 
the umbrella, too. Nell, look after our shawls and 
books. I will see to the baskets. The rest of you 
being from the North will doubtless find something to 
pick up.” 

The shaft strikes precisely where the archer had 
aimed, but the Yankee is ready for it. He jumps upon 
a trunk and looks eagerly about him, cranes his neck, 
climbs upon a larger trunk, and then asks the loan of 
his father’s spectacles. “Bead cedar, scrub-oak, red 
clay, smoke, and coal-dust. A Yankee would be driven 
to a good long hunt before he would find anything 
worth picking up in this barren,” he exclaims. “ Gen- 
eral McChesney, is this the sunny side of the Cum- 
berland ?” 

“No,” she replies. “I suspected you would know 
the appearance of a mountain when you saw it. We 
are now in the barrens.” 

“ Good for coal, iron, lumber, or cattle?” he queries. 

“ Good for dyspepsia,” she replies. “Every road you 
see here leads to at least half a dozen mineral springs. 
They are as abundant in this country as rogues are in 
Chicago.” 

“ Then why not pitch our tents here for the present ?” 
asks prudent Mrs. Crawford. 

“We shall find it the same wherever we go,” Eobert 


ON TO SPARTA. 


19 


explains. “We need make no special stop on account 
of the water.” 

“ Major,” exclaims Blanche, “ we shall be arrested 
for blocking the public highway unless we move on. 
What a crowd of people ! There must be some un- 
usual excitement,” she adds; and Bob says, — 

“ This is the one town in the United States where the 
entire population turns out to see theHrains come in. 
Miss McChesney. Visitors and citizens all answer to 
the engine’s whistle ; city-bred girls pop their heads in 
the car-windows, always on the hunt for expected 
friends, as if that old threadbare excuse had not played 
out long ago, and as if people do not usually prefer the 
door rather than the window as a means of egress from 
the train. See, yonder they come, the entire popula- 
tion !” 

“ I can readily believe it,” she replies. “ Let us 
move on and give them room.” 

“All aboard for Sparta!” sounds in our ears, and 
we gather our respective bundles and start — “ On to 
Sparta 1” 

Lincoln touches Blanche’s sleeve : “ Is Sparta good for 
dyspepsia ?” 

“ In broken doses,” she replies. 

Behind us lies the green valley in the blue limestone 
country of the central basin; around us, monotonous 
levels of the highland rim ; and, in the distance, the 
shadowy, uncertain outline of the Cumberland Moun- 
tains. I resolve to make the best of the evils thrust 
upon me, and yet the very strangers are gaining more 
pleasure from the trip than I. I determine at once to 
leave off pouting and plunge into the fun. 

I can be pleasant and agreeable. Bob says so, and 
the good spirits of my fellow-travellers prove contagious. 


20 the SUNNF side of the CUMBERLAND. 

The curious little old car, which might have come 
out of the Ark if the Ark had carried cars, is crowded 
so that our party is separated. Bob thrusts me into 
the first vacant seat he can find, which chances to be 
occupied by an old man from the up-country, Cross- 
ville ; though I must do him the justice of explaining 
he shows nothing of the cross in his disposition to 
share with me, as far as possible, the seat; but he is 
large and the seats are narrow. I am crowded, and my 
large friend knows it, and he does his best to draw in ; 
but avoirdupois is a law to itself. It refuses to be drawn. 

I endeavor to relieve embarrassment by conversation. 

“A warm day,” by way of something new. The 
more idiot I. I have only reminded him afresh of the 
situation. Ho takes off his hat and begins a desperate 
fanning performance. 

“ Mighty hot, pow’rful ; makes a fellow sweat wors’n 
grubbin’ pertaters.” 

I think to try a more comfortable subject. ‘‘ Do you 
get off at Sparta?” 

“Yes, and I declar’ to God I don’t believe we’ll ever 
git thar. Ain’t it hot, hot, hot ? Ain’t it crowded ?” 

This is a thrust. “Pretty well crowded,” I reply, 
un wedging myself for one good breath. 

Seeing this, the poor fellow begins drawing in again, 
until I am sorry I said anything. Then Lincoln Craw- 
ford comes to the relief. 

“ Miss Courtney, I am fully persuaded you are crowd- 
ing that small gentleman. I have a seat in the rear of 
the coach, if you will share it.” 

It is the first time Crawford the younger has conde- 
scended to speak to me for at least two hours. 

I look up in surprise. He seems good-natured 
enough as he stoops to catch my answer. 


ON TO SPARTA. 


21 


“ If you will take both my hands and help to 
unwedge me ” 

“ I never hold a lady’s hand,” he says in my ear. 
“My mother has impressed me fully with the impro- 
priety of it ; but if you can manage so that I can find 
your waist ” 

“ Thank you,” I reply. “ I believe I shall not trouble 
you.” 

“You’d best reconsider,” he advises. “You are tor- 
turing that old man.” 

Just here the old man in question gives something 
that was intended for a sigh, to me it is a groan, and 
it brings matters to a crisis. I rise at once, explain- 
ing— 

“ Of two evils I choose the less.” 

“By one hundred and fifty pounds at least,” he 
replies. 

Once settled in our places, we take an inspection of 
our fellow-travellers. My heart sinks. 

It will be too difficult to convince our Northern 
friends that mountaineers are not all of a pattern; and 
such a pattern ! 

At least a dozen of them, strong, slender-looking 
young men, have thrown themselves into the seats. 
Some of them are coatless; all are without collars, 
though one or two have colored handkerchiefs knotted 
under their throats. The slouch hats are pushed back 
on a tangle of yellow or black hair worn almost to 
the shoulders; heavy brows, which seem bent upon anj 
appointment to meet each other in brotherly affection ^ 
above the bridge of the nose, almost conceal small, 
bcad-like eyes hidden under the bushy growth. 

They have evidently been to town, and upon a lark 
at the same time, for one of them draws a small round 


22 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

tin box from his pocket and “ ’Lows that it ’ll ’bout 
settle the old gal’s temper.” 

After a while my companion turns to me. Are you 
dreaming ?” 

“No,” 1 reply. “I am wondering if that crowd 
hails from the sunny side of the mountain Bob has 
been telling us of.” 

He laughs. “ It is a hard gang,” he says, “ but ten- 
der hearts sometimes beat beneath coarse jackets, you 
know.” And then we fall into a quiet chat, until a 
mountain boy about eighteen years of age draws a 
banjo from under the seat and begins to sound a 
string. 

“We shall doubtless have some music,” says my 
companion, in delighted anticipation, “ These country 
boys are always fine musicians.” And we both give 
ourselves to listening; but the hopes we have enter- 
tained are doomed to a speedy death. 

The boy continues to pull upon one string in a mo- 
notonous, determined twang, until the insulted cord 
finds relief from persecution in snapping. Eegardless 
of the break, the finger moves to the next string and 
takes up the twang again. For two hours the torture 
continues. 

The boy’s companions are asleep. He himself leans 
his head upon the window-frame and closes his eyes, 
but his fingers still follow the poor string, until at last 
the banjo slips from his hands to the floor, the heavy 
head falls upon his breast, and the musician is fast 
asleep ! 

Major Crawford, who has been for some time contem- 
plating the country through which we are passing, 
leans forward and touches Eobert on the shoulder. 

“ For what is this section good ?” ho inquires. 


ON TO SPARTA. 23 

“Look out; your eyes Avill tell you,” Bob answers. 
And we all turn to the windows. 

The train is crossing Caney Fork. Far below, the 
little stream washes the base of the great bluff which 
casts a gloom upon the shadow-haunted water. No 
wandering shafts of dying sunlight, no violot-robcd 
dawn ever reaches the dark floor of the bluff-bound 
river, a Bastile through whose crevice no light ever 
creeps. Only at high noon the sun peers into the 
shadowy water like a jailer taking a noonday prison in- 
spection, and then passes on to the fire-beds of the west, 
leaving the river darker for the transitory brightness. 

Then the scene changes, the prospect brightens. 
With a practical yet appreciative eye. Major Crawford 
sees orchard after orchard, trees loaded with apples, 
myriads of ripening peaches that would ere long please 
the palates of his Northern kinsmen, and pears that 
acknowledge a rival nowhere this side the sunny fields 
of California. 

The major touches Blanche, and says, — 

“We are nearing the sunny side.” 

She laughs, and answers, — 

“ Not yet ; we are scarcely in sight of the mountains 
yet. You will know them ; the mountains of Tennes- 
see are totally unlike the mole-hills of Iowa. You will 
know them.” 

Know them? Aye, verily! Know them first by 
the peaks brushing the blue sky ; know them by the 
glistening granite of the sometimes rugged steeps, and 
by the eaglets circling in the forest wilds that clothe 
their crested flanks ; know them by the scars the storm- 
king left upon their brows; know them by the kiss the 
rainbow left, and by the red and gold the sun’s caress 
has painted ; know them by the crimson light that en- 


24 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

girdles them at evening, and by the blue mist that en- 
shrouds them when the dawn is trembling on their 
summits; and know them when the mists are lifted 
by the voice within the soul, which answers to the 
majesty which crowns God’s chiefest handiwork. 


CHAPTEE III. 

THE HERO OF THE CALF-KILLER. 

When can their glory fade ? 

0 the wild charge they made ! — 

All the world wondered.” 

“ It argues one unknown not to know the Calf- 
Killer,” says Bob. 

“Why ?” 

“ For the reason that it marks two conspicuous bat- 
tles of our late unpleasantness, besides giving a title to 
a very distinguished officer of the Federal army, — 
“ ‘ the Hero of the Calf-Killer.’ ” 

“ Well, if the title did not kill him, the bullets should 
have spared him,” says Lincoln. “ Where did the famous 
Calf-Killer find its name ?” 

“Big Injun name,” replies Bob. “Shall I tell you 
something of two battles fought on its banks or near 
them ? They are worth hearing when one has never 
heard them ; only, being on the losing side, you may not 
enjoy them.” 

“ Oh, go on ! I don’t propose fighting battles that 
were fought before I made my entrance into this 
world.” 

He tilts his chair back against the wall; the odor of 


THE HERO OF THE CALF-KILLER. 


25 


their cigars comes to us through the open window be- 
neath which they are sitting, Bob and Lincoln, dis- 
cussing the events that immortalized the Calf-Killer 
Eiver. 

Every word comes to us as Bob tells of the two 
famous victories. 

“I had the stories from the two chief participants, — 
the old Confederate general and the brave, and then 
young, colonel. The general’s battle was fought four 
miles from here. His home is just in that clump of 
cedars across the town. He was a wealthy man in 
those days, respected and loved by everybody ; espe- 
cially, he supposed he had won the affection and confi- 
dence of his slaves. But he declares at the first toot 
of the trumpet they were ready to fly. His battle of 
the Calf-Killer is a delightfully interesting story when 
told by the general himself, winter evenings, around 
his big hickory fire. 

“It was on July 27, ’63, he was ordered to leave 
Chattanooga with his cavalry, the Eighth Tennessee. 
The troops moved across Walden’s Eidge, passed over 
Cumberland Mountain, and halted at Sparta on the 
29th, taking but two days for the tiresome march. In- 
structions had been given to watch and report the 
movements of General Eosecrans’s army, one corps of 
which was located twenty-six miles from this place. 
Scouts were sent into the enemy’s lines, their foraging 
and scouting parties were harassed, and a few j)risoners 
and horses were captured. 

“ On the morning of the 9th of August the pickets 
from the Confederate corps were attacked eight miles 
from camp by the brigade of Colonel M. A lively race en- 
sued, but the captain in command managed the retreat 
so skilfully as to hold the enemy in check, and keep his 
B 3 


26 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

own men well up until they reached camp. Colonel M.’s 
brigade was camped upon the general’s own farm, two 
miles north of Sparta, and the general heard the firing 
before the courier arrived, just at daylight ; he hur- 
riedly saddled his horse, and sent Captain McG. with 
his company to meet and check the enemy, w^hile with 
his regiment himself fell back across Wild-Cat Creek. 
This creek, owing to deep banks and a mill-pond, is 
passable only at the bridge. 

“ The enemy, at full speed, passed the general’s men 
before they could get into position. They had easily 
routed Captain McG.’s company, and were sweeping 
into the pass, when the general with two companies 
took position in front of the bridge, and sent the re- 
mainder of the regiment, under the acting adjutant, to 
form a line from his stand to the Calf-Killer Eiver. 
Not a gun was to be fired until they should open fire 
at the bridge. 

“ There was an open space between Wild-Cat Creek 
and a large ante-bellum fence. It was necessary the 
enemy should pass through this space — some two or 
three hundred yards — to reach the bridge. 

“ When their advance reached this bridge the Con- 
federates opened upon them, and the entire regiment 
returned the fire. Yelling and hallooing they came on, 
charging at full speed through the open space. 

“ On the other hand, answering the noisy onset, arose 
sharp and clear the stirring old rebel yell, while the 
boys poured volley after volley into the moving mass 
until they fell back in confusion, cursing the trap into 
which they had been drawn. They soon rallied and 
charged again, but were again repulsed. They then 
charged on foot, and were a third time repulsed. 

“They next sent a party across the Calf-Killer to an 


THE HERO OF THE CALF-KILLER. 


27 


attack ill the rear, but the watchful old general had an- 
ticipated this movement and was prepared for them. 
After skirmishing awhile, he decided to retire one mile 
to the mouth of the Blue Spring Creek, and so gain a 
stronger position. 

“ The enemy, however, declined to follow, but re- 
treated toward the Caney Fork, and were pursued some 
eighteen miles by the Confederates, who really num- 
bered but three hundred men. 

“A score of dead horses and half as many dead men 
were left upon the field, to say nothing of the wounded. 
The loss upon the Confederate side was four wounded 
and eight captured. 

“ That was the grandest triumph the old Calf- 
Killer ever witnessed. When the battle was over the 
ladies of the neighborhood sent out breakfast for the 
hungry soldiers, who had left the camp at daylight. 
The colonel of the opposing side swore a good round 
oath, recommending to the eternal torments of a warmer 
country the Union guide that had led him into the trap 
set by his foes. 

“ This is one of the battles of the Calf-Killer. The 
general had his camp just across the river from where 
the battle was fought; his scouts were sometimes chased 
back to camp by the enemy, which was thirty-five hun- 
dred strong. He had lately been reinforced by two 
hundred men ; and when the enemy divided at Sparta, 
— part going for the general’s camp, — he put the two 
hundred reinforcement at the mouth of the Wild-Cat 
Creek, and took with him the Eighth Tennessee on the 
Calf-Killer. Both parties were pursued on creek and 
river, fighting for six hours. The little handful of men 
could do nothing more than defend themselves against 
a fierce and strong foe. 


28 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“At dark the enemy withdrew and went into camp, 
and fearing a renewal of the attack at daybreak, the 
general withdrew his command and moved two miles 
up the Cumberland Mountain, You can see the road 
from here. As they were withdrawing, they were 
fiercely charged ; but the watchful rebels were ready, 
and promptly repulsed them, and retired to the top of 
the mountain, leaving, of course, scouts and pickets to 
watch the movements of the enemy. 

“ The next morning news came that the host was 
moving toward the mountain. The general rallied his 
men and prepared to meet them, but they turned into 
Hickory Yalley toward Pikeville in the Sequachie 
Yalley. They were too far otf to attempt pursuit, so 
the little rebel horde returned to their old camp and 
counted their loss: six wounded, four captured, two 
killed. With all its advantages, the enemy’s loss was 
heavy. Their dead were, many of them, left in a sink- 
hole in a field to the care of the buzzards. The Eighth 
Tennessee boys buried them. The enemy passed on to 
Chattanooga, and a leaf was added to Fame’s pages to 
the credit of the Calf-Killer. 

“ Do I bore you ?” 

“Hot at all,” is the answer. “It is refreshing to 
hear both sides of a story, but I fail to see where the 
Hero of the Calf-Killer figures.” 

“ Oh, that is a different battle and a different man. 
I supposed one defeat as much as a Northern man cared 
to hear in one afternoon.” 

“ By no means. Let me hear it all,” he insists, and 
Bob continues : 

“ I shall have to give you this as it was told me by 
the colonel himself. You would not enjoy it so well 
told any other way. 


THE HERO OF THE CALF-KILLER. 


29 


‘ It was on the 23d of February, 1864,’ says the col- 
onel. ‘ I was at my home in Putnam County. I was 
then on special duty in the enemy’s lines, scouting and 
otherwise operating the best I could. I had under my 
charge twenty-five or thirty soldiers, most of whom 
were good and tried men, ready to do their duty in any 
kind of contest. About eight o’clock a neighbor boy 
came running in and told me the enemy’s cavalry was 
about one mile off. This created a stir; we started at 
once for our command, five miles distant, in the direc- 
tion of Sinking Cane. Several times we passed in sight 
of them before we reached our destination. We joined 
the command, and together left the Calf-Killer at two 
p.M. I left word for the captain in command of the 
pursuing hosts if he had any business with me to meet 
me next morning and we would settle matters. 

“‘We crossed the mountains and went down the 
Calf-Killer, sending a courier to our major’s camp to 
tell him to meet us next morning at Dug Hill, which 
he did, and there we arranged our order of battle. 
We numbered fifty-five, all told, and I regret to say 
ten or fifteen of these fied when the enemy appeared. 
When the battle opened we numbered forty. 

“ ‘ We selected a strange position. If we had been 
attacked in our first position there would not have 
been a man left to recount the events of that day. They 
had pursued us all morning, and not until the next 
morning discovered our whereabouts. When they saw 
us they fell back into a stalk-field. While they were 
forming their line we attacked them in their chosen 
position, and after a few shots advanced, when they 
fell back again and started in a break through the 
woods up the mountain. 

“ ‘ Seeing this, I divided my force and sent Major B. 

3 * 


30 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

with eight or ten men to follow and bring them, if 
possible, to a stand, while Captain C. and myself with 
twenty or twenty-five men -made a circuit to get in 
their rear. Half-way up the mountain Major B. 
charged them, but they made only a short stand, 
moved on up the mountain, and made battle, standing 
some little time until our party got in their rear and 
charged them with our famous old six-shooters. Then 
the tide of battle turned, and the enemy were scattered 
for a distance of three miles. 

“ ‘ This was the first battle I ever saw fought with 
rocks. In Broad Yalley, where we overtook them in 
some force, I heard the captain exclaim, — 

“‘“Save your ammunition, boys. Take rocks to 
them.” I saw him strike a fellow with a stone ; I am 
sure he killed his man. Once we ran upon a squad of 
the enemy, and I came in contact with an oflicer. My 
pistol failed to fire : it was shot out. Being compelled 
to pass him and fearing he would shoot after I had 
passed, I gave him a tap as I went by and he fell from 
his horse. I went on. I have since shaken hands 
with that man, though how he escaped that day is a 
mysteiy, for there were some desperate boys of ours 
bringing up the rear. 

“ ‘It is twenty -two years since that fight took place. 
I was a young man then. Twenty-two years make a 
gap in a man’s life. I cannot remember all that tran- 
spired on that day, but I well remember we did not 
intend to be beaten by them. We were determined to 
whip or die in the attempt. The enemy was composed 
of two companies; our force was about forty. One 
incident I must not forget. I had shot out my pistol 
and was following along loading, when Major B. 
passed me and overtook the enemy in a lane. After 


THE EERO OF THE CALF-KILLER. 


31 


going one hundred yards I saw him unhorse three of 
them. I could see the smoke from his pistol, and the 
fellows would roll olf. 

“ ‘ “ Fun for the boys but death to the frogs,” the 
hoys would say. And if one could forget the horror of 
it, it was one of the most ridiculous battles ever fought. 
Why, the boys just sat upon their horses and waited 
to be knocked off. Forty-seven were killed and sev- 
eral were captured while trying to make their way to 
Sparta, hatless and shoeless. It was a funny fight if 
ever a fight was funny. I never saw one like it, and 
have no wish to see another.’ ” 

“ But the Hero of Calf-Killer?” says Lincoln. 

“Oh, to be sure, the Hero of the Calf-Killer was 
delivering a twenty-second of February speech in town. 
He was occupying the church, had just spread his 
manuscript before him, cleared his throat and taken 
position, when a queer-looking object at the door at- 
tracted his notice by the most frantic and peculiar 
gestures. 

“ The Hero looked up, and straightway looked down 
again. 

“ The figure, which proved to be a man bootless, 
hatless, coatless, wild-eyed, and frightened, dashed up 
the aisle, and, stopping at the speaker’s stand, blurted 
out, — 

“ ‘ Colonel, the — the — ^the — damned — rcb — reb — els — 
have attacked — the — the — reg — reg — i — i — ment — and 
ki — ki — killed them all. I am — the — the — only — one 
left — to — te — t — tell — the — ^tale.’ 

“ The colonel hastily gathered his manuscript and 
made for headquarters. There another battered repre- 
sentative soon staggered in and reported all dead but 
him. Ere long a third appeared : ‘ All dead but me.’ 


32 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

And so the remnant dropped in one by one till mid- 
night, when a last forlorn object stood trembling in the 
august presence. 

“ ‘All killed but me.’ 

“ ‘And a blamed pity they did not get you,’ ex- 
claimed the irate colonel. 

“ ‘ They came pretty close to it, colonel,’ was the 
reply. ‘They followed us down a gorge, driving us on 
with rocks. Looking back, I saw the boys dropping 
one by one, until not one stood between the rebs and 
me, and the rebs a-gaining that fast I could hear their 
talking. It got too hot. I slid off the piebald and 
took the reins, putting the nag between the rocks and 
Jim Blainey. But they came the faster, and the vil- 
lains got nearer ; I could hear them breathing they 
were that close. Down in a narrow gulch I looked 
back, and saw a long hand reaching for the piebald’s 
tail ; I thought of Betsey and the six young-uns, and 
I said to myself, “Jim Blainey, you and the piebald 
part company to-night.” And I left without leave of 
the governor, and here 1 be to tell the story of the 
battle.’ ” 

For a moment there is silence, then Bob says, — 

“Do you now understand why it argues one un- 
learned not to know the Calf-Killer ?” 

And the answer, “ Aye, verily.” 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


33 


CHAPTEK lY. 

OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


“ Nor hill, nor brook we passed along 
But had its legend and its song." 

Strange sights arid stranger sounds once lent a 
suspicious air to the old road which, in the good old 
ante-bellum days, connected the city on the east with 
the central city of Tennessee, — the old stage-road. 

Deserted long ago ; its travel gone to enrich the 
coifers of the iron track that connects the same two 
cities, more easily perhaps, but certainly not more 
successfully, than did the old rock-bedded wagon-road 
across the Cumberlands. Gone, the glory of the stage- 
days, the crack of the driver’s whip, the rumble of the 
great, important old vehicle; the music of the horn that 
used to wind down the mountain passes has died into 
an echo, heard only in the memory of the old grand- 
father or grandmother, dreaming while the shadows 
are lengthening down the last lane they are still trav- 
elling. 

Gone ! out of date ; the pennies that were wont to 
jingle in the brown palms of the old stager are drop- 
ping with a click into the till of the palace-car and loco- 
motive master. Deserted, the old romantic stage-road. 

We have no thought of being left behind ; travelling 
that road has been so long a hope with us that we 
‘‘show fight” when the major declares we cannot 
accompany, him in this one trip. 

“ The road is awful,” he declares, “ and the incon- 


34 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


veniences innumerable ; besides, women are a nuisance 
on a trip like this.” 

“They usually hold their own pretty well for all 
that,” Blanche affirms ; “ and you will find the nuisance 
a determined one. We are going, hey?” 

“No!” snaps the major. “You want to wait here 
three weeks until I visit the coal-banks of Bon Air and 
return for you. We will then take the road through 
Hickory Yalley, and on to the Sequachie. You want 
to wait.” 

“That is just where you are in error,” she replies. 
“We ‘want’ to do nothing of the kind. What we want 
is to chase the gray ghosts around the ruins of Bon 
Air, snatch the spirit-whispers that haunt Lost Creek, 
drink hard cider and apple-jack by the blaze of the 
moonshiner’s hidden fire, chase rabbits, wild deer, and 
black bear to their coverts, ride in ox-wagons and 
dump-carts, eat corn-cake, broiled ham, apple-pie, and 
new honey: that is what we want. Hunt up an old 
wagon, and dispose of the baggage until we return ; I 
tell you we are going. I say the word, and you know 
‘ When she wills, she will.’ ” 

So it is settled, as it usually is when a woman leads 
the argument, in her favor. 

“ It will be horrid,” the major protests to the last. 

“It will be beautiful,” Blanche insists. “Your rail- 
roads may do for style, or even for comfort ; but for 
genuine romance and a royal good time, the ox-wagon 
forever.” 

The jostle, the jerking, the old rough road, the red 
clay banks, the moss-grown ridge, the sandstone bluff, 
the shelving rock, the towering cliff, the cloud-capped 
peaks, the mist-lined cove, and the broad, free sky, — 
ah ! who cannot read the sequel ? 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 35 

Over the old haunted road the great lumbering cart 
pushes its way among the crags and rocks, until the 
mountain-girt town lies in a blue haze behind us, disap- 
pearing in the mists of the early morning. Bear Cove 
shows no sign of life as we pass through ; not a wreath 
of smoke from the chimneys of the cottages and cabins 
dotted here and there along the three-mile level. 

Far above us the bold sun sails over the brow of the 
mountain, flaunting his full red beams in our very faces, 
as if surprised and indignant at the start we have on 
him. 

Up, up we go to cloudland, ever rising toward the 
mountain’s top, until the sun rises bold upright upon 
the highest peak, and defies us to proceed. 

We draw rein. Below us we can trace the dim out- 
line of the town shrouded in mist ; around us the still- 
ness of the morning and the quiet of the mountain ; 
above us the majestic summits, gorgeous in the new 
day. 

We reach the first bench of the mountain, and draw 
up before a curious old house that reminds us of a rat- 
eaten garment that has been stulfed away half a cen- 
tury. 

Lincoln Crawford cranes his neck and calls to the 
driver, a full-blooded mountaineer, — 

“ Say, driver, is this any particular place ?” 

“It air this pertic’lar place,” is the answer, while 
the mountaineer chuckles at his own wit. 

We all laugh at the young Northerner’s downfall; 
the unexpected joke seems to have dropped uninten- 
tionally from'the thin, set lips of the solemn individual 
handling the lines, filling the joint office of guide and 
driver. 

He points to the old, tumble-down rock house, with 


36 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

its capless chimneys and tiny prison-like window, 
shielded by a screen of soot and brown dust that had 
been gathering a quarter of a century and more. 

“ That air the old stage-house, — the tavern ; fifty year 
ago it done a big business. Miss Sage lives thar now, 
and raises her fambly.” 

Pointing to the left he says, ‘‘ To yon side is the old 
barn whar the stock was kep’ : built o’ solid, hew’d 
logs ; look what logs they be : no sech these daj^s.” 

We obey the command to “look,” first at the long, 
narrow old house, built of rock, colored once, long ago, 
with a kind of yellowish paint. Here it is “ Miss Sage” 
successfully “ raises her fambly.” 

The long, drooping, weather-beaten porch, beneath 
which the law-makers and law-breakers were wont to 
sit and “rest a spell,” each in his time, while the 
“ beastis war a-changin’,’’ is half rotted, and is falling 
away. In the “ good end” we can see a spinning-wheel, 
an old cooking-stove, a half-bushel measure, a tin pail ; 
and farther back, beyond the danger of rolling off, is 
spread a rude pallet, on which a healthy young repre- 
sentative of the Sage line lies kicking his heels in the 
morning sunlight. At the other end of the pallet a 
young black-and-tan hound lies with forepaws and nose 
just within the sun’s radius. A tall, gaunt woman is 
hoeing in the gardenrpatch, which shows conspicuously 
“ convenient ter han’.” A man, a stout, broad-breasted 
mountaineer, sits upon the rotted doorstep smoking in 
the sun. 

It may be true that Miss Sage raises her familj^ ; 
who can tell? At the driver’s “How-d’ye do. Miss 
Sage ?” she looks up, pushes the split-bonnet back upon 
her head, rests one arm on the handle of the hoe, and 
in a clear, shrill voice returns the salutation : 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


37 


“We air all about an’ a-doin’; bow are you-uns ter 
3’ore house 

“Toler’ble,” is the answer. “How air the gyarden 
truck ?” 

“Hit air a-doin’ too,” she replies. “ We-uns ’lowed 
to live this summer, an’ we air a-doin’ it. Light and 
rest a spell ?” 

“Hot this trip,” replies the driver, as if he were 
accustomed to climbing the mountains every day. 
“How is the old man’s mis’ry?” 

“ Better in the hip, but the mis’ry in the back ain’t 
no better.” 

The woman returns to her hoe, the man smokes on, 
the baby still kicks at the distorted shadows cast by 
his free young limbs, the dog dozes on in the June sun- 
shine ; all happy, — the husband, with the mis’ry in his 
back, the wife with the hoe, the child upon his pallet, 
the dog at his feet. Happy, — blindly, blissfully, cruelly 
happy, while the wealth-laden, velvet-clad world is 
groaning with its weight of woo. 

We pass on, leaving Miss Sage to her hoe and house- 
hold, and give our attention to the old stage-road 
barn, spreading its wings like a great mother-hen over 
her brood. The spider, the lizard, and the bat own it 
by possession held for fifty years, — heirs alike to the 
forgotten old structure. 

“ What a waste of good timber I” says the economi- 
cal major. “ I should not like to calculate the cost of 
a barn like that.” 

“ Then consider yourself excused, father,” says Lin- 
coln, “ and let us move on, unless you would like to 
‘ light and hitch’ with prospective intentions. If you 
think you can raise your family of sheep here with 
half the success with which Miss Sage has raised 

4 


38 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


her kids, why we will wait for you to locate your 
ranch.” 

The warning look comes too late ; the driver, with the 
extreme sensitiveness of the mountain people, under- 
stands that his humble friends are under the hammer 
of ridicule, and fires up in their defence. 

“ Miss Sage ain’t no fool ; she air a clinker,” ho 
declares. 

“I’ll warrant she is,” replies the ready Yankee. 
“ That is exactly the point I was trying to make. If 
father thinks he can be as successful in another line of 
business as the good lady of the rock house, I agree to 
his settling here; but I doubt his ability; his, you un- 
derstand, not hers. I never doubt a woman’s ability 
in any case. Hello ! what is it the sign-post says ?” 

A rude sign-board bearing an announcement in flam- 
ing green letters stands at the forks of two roads, one 
leading into a gorge in the mountain. 


Ef you want good ston cole cum ter 
MY BANK — GOOD STON COLE AT SEBEN 
SENSE. 


The index-finger of a green hand points the way 
down the gorge. 

“ Father,” cries Lincoln, “there is your opportunity 
meeting you half-way; good stone coal at seven cents; 
good stone coal going for a song. Think of it, gentle- 
men ! good stone coal going, going, actually given away. 
Going, going, gone!” 

The cart turns to the right, and the good stone coal 
is a thing of the past so far as we are concerned. 

Lincoln Crawford is a Yankee, a regular out and out 



OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 39 

Yankee; his tongue', as his father says, ‘‘wags at botli 
ends.” He talks himself into all sorts of scrapes, and 
then talks himself out as easily as he talked himself in. 
His thoughtless tongue has again put him out of favor 
with the driver ; he sees it, and eagerlj^ waits the op- 
portunity to reinstate himself. It comes sooner than 
was expected : the driver’s ire gets into his hands, and, 
giving the lines a jerk, the horses sh^^ to one side, 
throwing the cart-wheel upon a projecting rock ; there 
is a sudden sharp strain upon the gear. A snap, and 
a trace dangles at the horse’s side. Quick as thought 
the watchful Iowan seizes his opportunity ; a spring, 
and he is at the horse’s head, knife unclasped, before 
the dumfounded driver fairly comprehends the situa- 
tion, talking all the while gayly and glibly, as if broken 
traces, half-way up the Cumberlands, are the most usual 
accidents on record. 

“Just you keep still, Mr. Hodson ; I can fix all this 
in half a second; it is only a small matter,” as he ap- 
plies his knife. “A hole here,” suiting the action to 
the word, — “a very small hole; y-e-s, there! that is 
quite large enough. How that piece of twine-string I 
saw you stuff into your pocket, please ; so much for a 
thoughtful driver. This string will pull us up the 
mountain ; a slip here, a slip there, — ‘Whoa, Emma!’ — 
and a knot,” making it, “a good, strong, double knot; 
another like this,” tying a third ; “ so ! now I think we 
are ready to proceed. Bocks are no addition to roads 
that are tough enough without them, and accidents, 
3^ou know, will happen in the best-regulated families.” 

The rock is not in the road, and the old man knows 
it. He receives the impression that the young fellow 
has shielded him from the censure merited by care- 
less driving, and as Lincoln climbs into his place 


40 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


again all past offences are forgiven, and peace, harmony, 
and confidence again restored. He even unbends so far 
as to point out places and objects likely to interest us. 

“ Yonder,” be tells us, “ is the bead o’ Wild-Cat 
Cove ; it be on the Calf-Killer. To this side Bar Cove 
runs clean into the aidge o’ the mountain.” 

Wild-Cat Cove on the Calf-Killer, and Bear Cove on 
the “aidge o’ the mountain!” We are coming to the 
romance and adventure with a rush. 

“ This,” as we reach a broad, flat level, “ this useter be 
a fine orchid ; thar was a sight o’ apples raised here. 
Land alive! how the apples did grow in this old orchid. 
They don’t need ’em now,” he adds, with a knowing 
chuckle. “ They mostly raises p’ars now in this 
mount’n ; the left-hand orchid is p’ars, you see. Acre 
’pon top o’ acre; but it’s gwine to nothin’, too; the 
man what owned it went back North when the war 
broke out, and nobody’s struck a lick thar since. It 
was a fine orchid onc’t, but ’taint fittin’ for nuthin’ 
now ; nobody to mind the p’ars and no call for apples.” 

The fact that the State has set a price upon apple- 
juice, and put bloodhounds upon the trail of the dis- 
tiller of the same, has caused a depression in the apple 
market among the mountains ; but it seems a pity to 
see such a number of fine fruit-trees going to waste 
for lack of a hand to prune among them. Hotting, the 
sweet, yellow fruit, year after year, and dropping un- 
plucked to the ground, returning to mother-earth, the 
only thing that has a mind to claim them. 

We cannot repress a feeling of sorrow for the ruin 
and desolation about us. 

“ Is this the sunny side ?” asks Lincoln. “ If so, I 
should like to prescribe punishment for the man who 
shall dare to show the other side.” 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


41 


“ Sunny for what has been and shall be,” says Blanche. 
“A very little care would set things right; just some 
few years of honest, hearty industry, and the land would 
again yield her hundredfold. !N’ature has done her share 
and more. She has grown the wood and furnished the 
metal for the axe, and man refuses to turn the handle.” 

“ I’ll take your word for it,” says Lincoln. “ Don’t 
preach, sis; it is not a paying business in hot weather. 
Courtney, have you stumbled upon a buried memory 
lurking about this old stage-road, and, as Mrs. Brown- 
ing puts it, ‘ Coming back without the dream, you 
have tripped upon the stone which marks its sepulchre 
and hurt yourself?’ ” 

“Not I,” says Bob. “I was not a sojourner to Bon 
Air in its prime. My grandfather did some courting 
here, I believe.” 

“ And your great-grandmother took a boat-ride with 
old Noah, no doubt,” says Lincoln. “ You surprise me ; 
the idea of a man denying the years that have given 
him dignity ; that is effeminate, to say the least.” 

“See how the mists are shifting,” calls Blanche. 
“When we left the valley the mountain was so veiled 
we could not tell where earth ended and heaven began. 
They have vanished in the sunlight.” 

“No,” says Bob, “we are only getting into them; 
look behind you.” 

The blue-gray veil has been swept from the moun- 
tain’s face and thrown upon the lowland ; the valley 
lies dim and faint and dreamy in the mystic haze ; the 
bold peaks above us are green and fresh with verdure 
and shade, save where the bare, dull face of a project- 
ing bluff jutting out receives the red and gold shafts 
of sunbeams tingeing with fiery splendor the mineral- 
tinted rocks. 


4 * 


42 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The air is full of the fragrance of wild hawthorn and 
late laurel ; pink and white the tufted blossoms of the 
rhododendron nod in the deliciously cool coverts of 
rock, tantalizingly beyond reach of our covetous fingers. 

Again we stop, and scramble among the glens and 
gorges for more than an hour. We are a band of pi- 
rates suddenly set loose among a world of unclaimed 
treasures. Down we go into the cool crevices, dark 
with outcroppings of coal, or red with the min- 
eral substance waiting until the world’s need should 
unlock its sepulchre. Down among the ivy dipping 
its polished, waxen leaves into the mountain streams, 
that are dashing down the blutfs in cascades of white 
foam, singing as if they have verily gone mad with the 
summer’s glory. 

Down to the very verge of some projecting battle- 
ment of stone to peep in the shadowed cove below : 
down, down, and up again, jubilant with the sweet 
wildness and unpainted, untold glory of the Cumber- 
lands, until at last we drop to rest upon a moss-crested 
bank just as the sun tells the hour of noon, according 
to driver Hodson, upon the limestone belt below us. 

Here we have our lunch, and again a ramble, and 
again a rest. 

“ How sweet the air is !” says little Mrs. Crawford, 
sniffling the fragrance j “full, fresh, and fragrant and 
delicious.” 

“Mother,” cries Lincoln, “forbear. ‘Apt allitera- 
tion’s artful aid’ is unbecoming your years and dignity. 
Leave such empty jingles to Blanche or Miss Courtney, 
who, by the way, seems to have taken a vow of si- 
lence, — ‘an excellent thing in woman.’” 

“ Who cares to talk when everything in nature is 
busy?” I reply. “I was watching the purple veil 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


43 


which shrouds the lower world and the farther peaks 
of mountain. It is scarcely purple, yet the dull red 
underglow, with its delicate hint of madder-rose, scorns 
the idea of blue. What would you call it ?” 

“ I ? do you ask me ?” he says. “ I should call it gray 
fog.” 

“Lincoln Crawford, you have no more idea of the 
beautiful and grand in nature than that old crow 
cawing in the top of the dead oak behind us,” cries 
Blanche. 

“ Maybe you are right,” he saj^s, “ but to my think- 
ing a rock is a rock though there be moss upon it.” 

“ But prettier for the moss,” she replies; “ only some 
people are too dull to see the lichen on the rock.” 

He settles himself more comfortably upon the soft, 
mossy earth, and answers, lazily, — 

“ The malady is hereditary. Look at my father, how 
closely he is examining old man Hodson ; he is locating 
a sheep-ranch at this moment, with the old man sta- 
tioned at the head of affairs. Some day you will ride 
up this mountain with your grandchildren on a palace- 
car, and when it stops here for water you will read the 
flaming announcement of ‘Crawford and Son, Wool- 
Growers and Mutton Merchants,’ right here in the 
heart of your grand scenery.” 

“As probable as that I shall hear of Methuselah 
playing seven-up with the Czar of Eussia,” she replies. 
“ When my grandchildren shall come to explore the 
Cumberlands, ‘Crawford and Son’ will have stepped 
off the stage.” 

“Don’t be too positive,” he laughingly advises. 
“You have twelve months the start of the junior mem- 
ber of the Arm. Mother,” — slipping as usual from a 
tight place, — “have you fallen asleep with studying 


44 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

the mj^steries of carding, sj^inning, knitting, and 
weaving?” 

“ No,” she replies. “ I was only digesting the un- 
pleasant fact that I have raised a graceless young 
chatterbox.” 

He springs to his feet, raises his right arm with a 
tragical movement, and cries, — 

“Oh, shades of the mighty mountain, hear me I 
Condemned by the lips I love, slandered and undone 
by the mother to whom I owe my being, may I not 
find a refuge here among thy fastnesses ? May I not 
hope for solace amid thy rugged grandeur and thy 
forest gloom ? Eeceive a weary worshipper into thy 
shades ; cradle his head upon thy bosom, and rest his 
troubled heart with the fulness of thy beauty. Send 
forth thy breeze to fan him to his last abode ; the ivy 
and the laurel to cover with their kindest shade the spot 
that marks his most inglorious bed !” A moment’s pause, 
and, “Mother, are you overwhelmed with remorse?” 

“Not yet,” she answers, “although your eloquence 
is startling ; it moves me to ” 

“ Tears ?” he asks. 

“No, laughter.” 

Here Bob interposes. “ Crawford, if you have really 
made up j^our mind to commit suicide, wait half an hour 
and I will show you the most desirable spot on the 
Cumberland for shuffling olf the coil. It is just at the 
top, where the road turns for the last time. A bluff too 
high for even your father’s calculating looms to one 
side the road, while a great giant block, once part of 
the bluff, has been pitched by a land-slide to the other 
side. If you are climber enough to reach the top of 
this, you can make the ‘ happy hunting-ground’ in three 
seconds.” 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


45 


“ Thank you,” he replies, “ but let me tell you, what- 
ever downfall I may have encountered I shall never be 
fool enough to fall down a bluff whose distance out- 
travels the calculating capacity of Crawford Senior.” 

Just here the major calls to us that it is time to 
move on. We gather our shawls and rugs, scramble 
over gorges and rocks into the old cart again, and 
away over the steep and rocky ascent. 

Farther up, the cart turns a sharp, sudden curve, 
and we find ourselves under the shadow of a sheer, 
blank wall towering hundreds of feet skyward ; the 
bare, polished face turned to the sun shines white and 
glistening as the rays fall upon the sandy surface. 
For hundreds of yards the same unbroken line, bare, 
hard, glistening, rises like a wall set to guard some 
rich and powerful city. Not a moss, nor a lichen, 
scales the dizzy eminence. Far above, on the flat top, 
a forest of pines and giant cedars offers a tempting 
shade to him who can reach it. Who would be idiot 
enough to attempt such a climb ? Suddenly Lincoln 
turns to Bobert : 

“Here, in the mountains of old Tennessee, so high 
the eagle fears to scale their heights, and the clouds 
feel it no condescension to use them for a footstool, 
even here, amid the grand and awful Cumberlands, the 
plague has struck.” 

He points upward, where, upon the bold, bare preci- 
pice, the red, black, and blue lettering is telling the 
wonders of some patent liniment. 

“What an indignity!” cries Blanche; “and who is 
to read when the stamping is done ?” 

“The doing of it is the wonder,” says Lincoln. 
“I should like to know the route taken to reach that 
rock upon which the artist has stamped his wares.” 


46 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

And here the cart makes a last turn, the road grows 
broader and bolder and more open ; the driver pulls 
up his team and shouts in old stage-day fashion, — 

“Bon Air!” and we are fairly in the Cumberlands. 

Caanan ! Caanan I Was ever anything this side the 
Promised Land so altogether lovely and majestic ? 

. We stand at length upon the great projecting rock 
jutting from the line of towering cliffs, the old Lovers’ 
Leap of Bon Air. Dimly outlined in the hazy distance 
nestles the unpretentious little cove, under the wing of 
the mountain ; farther, like a child’s miniature toy-house, 
the little town, shrouded in mist. Beyond the cove, far 
away, lifting their old summits skyward, we can see 
the Milksickand Hickory ^Tut Mountains, and the dark 
cedars of old Pine Mountain, gloomy and sombre and 
grim, conspicuous among the many conspicuous points. 
Mountain upon mountain, wave upon wave of cloud- 
covered, sloping spurs rising gracefully one above the 
other until distance loses the outline in the clouds. 

We watch until the purplish haze drifts down the 
valley, and we turn with wonder and regret to the 
ruins of Bon Air. 

An old chimney still stands boldly defiant of wind 
and weather, a self-constituted monument to departed 
splendor; yet another, outlasting the break of storm 
and the fatality of time, rises among a clump of lonely 
pines, a skeleton of the glory that has perished. 

Upon the remnants of a crumbled wall the luscious 
wild grape and the deadly poison-oak have twined and 
trailed and intertwined their tendrils in brotherly 
embrace for almost three decades. The ivy blossoms 
year after year upon the very spot that marked the 
doorstep, rejoicing that the white fingers of fair young 
girls no longer meddle with its pearl-pink petals. 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


47 


The stinging nettle and the crossvine shoot their 
ugly roots exultantly within a stone’s throw of the 
gardener’s ruined lodge. 

The garden itself is but a waste of yellow sedge, a 
wilderness of rank, rude grass, from out whose tangle 
now and then a pale red rose or a delicate lily pite- 
ously forces a passage to the sunlight, telling in dumb 
flower-fashion the story of pinker cheeks and lily 
bosoms which took their beauty from this same for- 
saken garden-bed, reflecting all the rose’s carmine and 
the lily’s loveliness. 

In the ruin which once boasted the delicacies of the 
kitchen garden the wild strawberry still flourishes, and 
raspberry-vines clutch at our skirts in passing, as 
though entreating us to turn back the leaves in Time’s 
remorseless ledger, and read how once they furnished 
nectar for red young lips, or painted the palms of the 
little children who have since grown gray. 

The privet hedge affords good covert to the rabbit, 
and sometimes an overbold fox peers jubilantly from 
the rank, untended undergrowth. 

Beyond this hedge a giant sandstone cliff, breaking 
from its bold and clearing for itself a passage, went 
thundering down the mountain, leaving the sleek, sheer 
wall bare and majestic to face the sun and earth and air. 

Deep, deadly gorges here and there, and among the 
thick, clustering ivy a sound of falling water some- 
where among the crags falls pleasantly upon the ear. 

But above all, the distant mountains rising like senti- 
nels above the valleys dotted at their base, or nestling 
happily among their many-pointed spurs ; ever and 
always faithful, grand, and good, these old summits, 
crowned with the light which may be, for its rapture, a 
gleam from the land beyond their heights. 


48 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


Silent, spellbound, we drink in the beauteous vision. 
Canaan ! Canaan ! 

At last we gather upon the smooth, moss-covered 
bluff overlooking the valley ; in the dreamy distance 
the white, cream-crested clouds float above the drowsy 
landscape, while the moving, drifting cloud-shadows 
cast a momentary blue upon the mountain’s sunny 
slope. 

Blanche, standing upon the bluff’s verge, lifts her 
eyes, and repeats softly snatches of Bead’s dreamy 
“Drifting”: 

“ Far, vague, and dim. 

The mountains swim ; 

"While on Vesuvius’ lofty hrim, 

With outstretched hands, 

The gray smoke stands, 

O’erlooking the volcanic hands. 

* * * * * - 

“ With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 

Under the walls of Paradise.” 

The low voice, and the lazy measure of the exquisite 
conception, harmonize so perfectly with the peaceful, 
paradisal picture, that she seems but expressing Na- 
ture’s thought in words : 

“ With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 

Under the walls of Paradise.” 

“Under the walls of Paradise!” The ecstatic con- 
summation of rapture dies in the whispered exclama- 
tion. 

“Come away from among the clouds, and take an- 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


49 


other look at the ruins of Bon Air,” says Bob, when 
she has finished the poem. 

“ I am not partial to ruins,” she replies. “ They are 
too much like looking back ; and these backward 
glances are never good for us. It is the future that is 
always rosy and hopeful and strong.” 

Nevertheless she comes down from the lofty pinna- 
cle, and together they pass into the shadow of the 
cedars grouped upon the former festal ground. 

Major Crawford is busy exploring the old orchard 
and garden spot. 

Lincoln turns to me. 

I was thinking, he says, “ of the scientific wonders 
clustering about this grim old mountain ; the outcrop- 
pings of coal above the limestone base, the sandstone 
roofing, the fern and fossil wonders of the century- 
hidden rocks, all telling, silently and surely, of the 
secret workings of nature. I cannot help but wonder 
if at last the hot-breasted, faith-defying old earth will 
not again burst her hands of iron and granite and lay 
hare her bosom. I wonder if this old monster-moun- 
tain will not again be lifted to block the progress of the 
sea. Wonderful! wonderful I Inconceivable and mys- 
terious in spite of all the ‘ ifs’ and ‘ isms’ of both scientist 
and clergy.” 

And we both fall to dreaming in the fading sunlight, 
and sit silently watching the shadows lengthening and 
spreading over Bear Cove, until the major joins us, 
lamenting the decay and desolation around. 

“ A shame 1” he declares, “ a crying shame !” 

In his indignation he steps dangerously near the 
brink of the beetling rock. 

“Father,” cries Lincoln, “if you go a step nearer 
the edge I shall disgrace my manhood by growing 
c d 5 


50 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

nervous. What is it that rivets your attention so 
closely ? I hope you are not locating a ranch on these 
romantic heights?” 

“ Indeed, I am guilty of no such sacrilege,” answers 
the major. “ I was dreaming.” 

‘‘At your age? fie ! it is beyond belief.” 

“ True, nevertheless,” he replies. “ I was considering 
the marvellous hold old mother-earth has upon her 
own. She shifts her children off, but the maternal tie 
is too strong to be entirely severed. We turn to nature 
as a child to its mother: she is always beautiful, and 
true, and faithful.” 

“ Granted, the latter part of your assertion,” says 
Lincoln; “ but 1 spurn the heresy which declares it is 
the dust-link which responds to the voice of nature ; it 
is the soul, the infinite, thinking, feeling part of our 
being, that catches the voices of the spheres.” 

Below us the purple haze has drifted down the valley 
and out beyond the gap between the mountains. 

The mist is blushing to a rich, warm red as the sun 
sails down toward the horizon. 

“How exquisitely beautiful!” I exclaim. “I wonder 
if the others are enjoying it also.” 

“ The suggested doubt does injustice to their sense 
of appreciation,” says Lincoln. “I can answer for 
mother : look at her as she sits in the gloom of those 
drooping old pines, with her hands folded in her lap, lost 
in admiration and wonder. If it were a man, I should 
say it is a prophet viewing Caanan from the solitary 
heights of Hebo. As it is, I will venture the assertion 
her thoughts are far beyond the fleeting splendors of 
this old mountain; I suspect she is at this moment 
fancying the Beulah Land lies just behind yonder 
madder cloud-belt with the silver fringe. Let me see. 


OLD TIMES IN TENNESSEE. 


51 


Mother 1” he calls, and she looks our way and smiles. 
“ This is Lovers’ Leap, and the view will soon be en- 
tirely obscured by the rising mists. Shall I come for 
you before it fades ?” 

She nods, and the tall young fellow goes bounding 
up the ascent, returning soon with his mother, leading 
her gently and carefully over the rolling, uncertain 
stones. 

When he has spread a shawl, and she is comfortably 
seated, he drops down at her side : 

“Mother, how could you fancy those ghostly old 
pines, when down here it was so bright and sunny and 
good ?” 

She lifts her eyes skyward. The madder-tinted 
cloud is fading ; a pillar of purple spans the sky, and 
the top is bright with the descending and ascending 
cherubim that have taken form in the cream-white 
cloudlets. 

“ I was thinking,” she says, “ of Christ in Gethsem- 
ane. The dark mountain and the lonely garden, and 
paradise behind the gloom of Calvary; and I felt 
nearer to Him for the fancy.” 

“ ... Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 

Of thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace 
Are here to speak of thee. . . . 

. . . Written on thy works, I read 

The lesson of thy own eternity.” 


52 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTEE V. 

“GHOSTS THAT GUARD BON AIR/» 

“ If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 

For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.” 

“Wait and see the moon rise,” Bob insists. “Bon 
Air is nothing by daylight when once you have seen 
the moonlight flooding these majestic old bluffs.” 

“ But suppose we should lose our way ?” I suggest, 
seeing the moonlight suggestion promises to carry. 

“Not much danger; we are almost on the level top 
of the mountain, and the road is white, soft sand, per- 
fectly safe, and well worth the trouble. What do you 
say, Mrs. Crawford?” 

“ I say, if anything can add to this view, which I do 
not altogether believe, why, I am for seeing it.” 

“ That settles it,” cries Lincoln. “ There is a cabin 
behind those cedars beyond the ‘gyarden spot;’ we 
can doubtless find accommodation. Come, Courtney, 
let’s investigate the matter.” 

He starts off in the direction of the cedars, but Mrs. 
Crawford calls him back. 

“There is no necessity for our troubling the good 
people ; we have our lunch, and why not build a fire 
and take it gypsy fashion, here on the rocks ?” 

“ Mother, you are a genius !” he cries. “ What could 
be more charming? — only” — he suddenly changes his 


GHOSTS THAT GUARD BON AIR. 


53 


tone — “ the ghosts may disturb us, or the witches put 
out our fire and chase us off, before we have finished 
our supper. Miss Courtney, are you afraid of ghosts ?” 

“Awfully,” I answer, with a shudder, as the wind 
rocks the old pine-tops above us. 

“ Well, they are here,” he says ; “ this is the regular 
gathering-place of the ghosts and gnomes and genii. 
I know by the appearance of that old towering, rugged- 
edged bluff that old Hecate holds her court there o’ 
moonlight nights; all the old hags and dirty little 
devils will be out to-night on broomsticks, tree-toads, 
and yellow cats’ backs. Mother, aren’t you afraid ?” 

“ Very much afraid you have forgotten the meaning 
of the word truth,” she replies. “ Where is your 
father?” 

“ Studying the hieroglyphics on the old moss-sodded 
capstone of Lovers’ Leap,” he replies. “ Don’t disturb 
him, mother; genius dislikes interruption. Leave him 
to his meditations, and let us proceed to emigrate to 
the other side of the road ; there is a glorious camping- 
ground over there, and the most thoroughly imposing 
bluffs mortal eye ever beheld. The spring is on that 
side, — the famous old chalybeate that healed its thou- 
sands before the days of ‘ rangom root’ and ^ keystone.’ 
Come, Courtney, shoulder your share of the luggage.” 

His own arms are already full — shawls, baskets, 
books, and hand-pockets — before Blanche can enter her 
protest. 

“ Do let us remain where we are until the sun sets ; 
there will be time enough for the moonlight when the 
sunlight is gone.” 

“You will be sorry,” says Bob, “if you stay here; 
it is a pity to lose a fine impression, and after the sun 
sets this place offers only a forest of dark, shadow- 
5 * 


54 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

growing trees, grouped among dead-white mists ; on the 
other side the view is finer at sunset, and the place more 
attractive, not only for the weird fancies and fantastic 
shapes the imagination easily conjures, but for the 
world of grandeur that marks it. They say, too, the 
woods are haunted with the ghosts of pretty girls who 
once sang among their shades, — the rocks still echo 
the songs of fifty years ago. You have only to pitch 
the tune, and the rocks join in the chorus, ^^or is 
that all; the soldiers camped near here during the 
war, and at midnight they hold a revel on the topmost 
level of that great, castle-like bluff that frowned upon 
us half-way up the mountain. The clash of arms and 
the clang of armor can yet be heard at midnight. I 
think the other side far superior to this.” 

“ It must be so, indeed,” she exclaims, rising from 
the mossy rock upon which she has been sitting, and 
preparing to follow. Suddenly the major utters an 
exclamation, and we all run to see what it is he has 
unearthed. 

“ What is it ?” cries Blanche, seizing the stick with 
which he has been overturning and throwing off the 
brown moss from the large fiat capstone of Lovers’ 
Leap. “ Is it a toad ? An ugly little witch of a toad? 
‘Good friend, in Jesu’s name forbear.’ The horrid 
little beast may be old Hecate herself.” 

She kneels upon the moss-pillared rock, and carefully 
scrutinizes the clearing made by the stick, while the 
rest look on in expectation. 

After a moment’s search she clasps her hands and 
cries, — 

“ I have it ! that’s it. See !” And while we gather still 
closer, she follows with her forefinger the large, clear- 
cut letters caiwed in the rock; “ ‘ C-L-A-K-A. 1830.’ ” 


GHOSTS THAT GUARD BON AIR.” 


55 


Ah ! the name, carved by a lover’s hand fifty years 
before, and hidden under moss and mould, tells its own 
story. “ Clara !” fair and distinct as when ’twas traced 
and left there five decades back. “Clara;” the name 
seems laughing at us as the golden-haired, blue-eyed 
maiden who bore it flits before our imagination. 

“ I wmnder who she is ?” says Blanche : “ 1830: fifty 
years ago ; she is an old woman now.” 

“Maybe she too is safely housed under moss and 
mould,” suggests Bob; but we refuse to believe it. 
We intend to picture her always young and beautiful, 
with troops of gay lovers who delight to syllable her 
name ; and one, the best and bravest of them all, whose 
hand has left her autograph upon the everlasting rock ; 
“ Clara. 1830.” Poor Clara ! Fifty years are not 
swiftly told. 

We find other names; sometimes a stanza of a love- 
ballad cut through where the sandstone bluff was 
broken off and dropped into the gulch below. 

“ If these old rocks could tell the story of fifty years 
ago, what a tale they would unfold !” says Bob ; and 
Lincoln suddenly asks, — 

“ Who destroyed Bon Air ?” 

“ A party of Confederate soldiers set fire to the build- 
ings one night to prevent, some say, their falling into 
the hands of the enemy.” 

“What a bonfire it must have made!” exclaims the 
major. “ One could almost have seen the blaze in New 
York. Imagine, if you can, this mighty elevation 
crowned with flame.” 

“There is no necessity to imagine it,” says Bob. 
“Look!” 

The sun is setting; the broad blaze of quivering 
light crimsons the crested top and bare, glistening 


56 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

wall of the mountain, silvers the polished laurel-leaves, 
and trembles in the restless, drooping pines. Purple 
butterflies with black borders upon their new spring 
gowns are hurrying in from the falling twilight ; a be- 
lated red-bird, with a shrill, startled cry, disappears 
among the leaves of a friendly maple below the upper 
ledge of the mountain. The dying sun pours a last 
passionate caress upon the breathless world. 

“ Earth crammed with heaven, 

And every common hush afire with God.” 

The great blood-dabbled ball drops beyond the hori- 
zon ; a pale gray, filmy mist begins to gather ; the 
panoramic pictures fade; the mist grows bolder and 
more dense, until only a tremulous streak tells where 
lately the great red sun had faded; the restless laurel 
trembles with the rising breeze ; the dark, Gethsema- 
nean pines are sobbing with a melancholy moan ; the 
staring, yellow moon swings round the boldest, tallest 
cliffs, and in her wake one lonely star is shining ; the 
day is done! 

With one impulse we rise. 

“ JSTow for the gypsy camp-fire and the gray ghosts !” 
cries Lincoln. 

“ Follow me,” says Bob, taking the lead. “ I know 
a spot where guerrillas and buskwhackers once had a 
hiding-place.” 

“Lead on,” cries Lincoln. “Ladies, pick up your 
‘yarbs’ you have spent a whole day in gathering; 
father, pick up your wife, and let us go — 

‘ Where the groundnut trails its vine, 

Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine. 
****** 

While for music comes the play 
Of the pied frog’s orchestra.’ ” 


“ GHOSTS THAT GUARD BON AIR.” 


57 


On we follow over the rocks, through ivy and cedar, 
to stand at last in an open clearing, almost entirely 
shut in, like some old palace court, by lowering walls 
of stone. 

Bobert throws his burden of shawls and satchels 
upon the ground, mounts a platform of rocks, and de- 
livers an address of welcome : 

“ So, Bobbie, make yourself at home ; 

’Mong friends and brithers you have come. 

And here’s a land that’s quite as fair 
As that between the Doon and Ayr.” 


Soon we begin our preparations for tea. Bob de- 
clares old Hecate never dreamed of such a caldron 
as ours promises, if we can only succeed in finding 
the little tea-kettle, packed away in one of the 
large valises that are to do duty for trunks until our 
return this way. At last Lincoln draws the vessel 
from the bottom of the largest, swings it, with a shout, 
above his head, while the crowded dry-goods roll in a 
promiscuous pile from the upset valise. 

“We are Yankees, Miss Courtney, and are always 
prepared for emergencies,” he explains, “ else we should 
have no tea this evening. How for the water. I say, 
Hell!” he turns to me, “put those dry-goods back in 
that valise while I am gone.” 

“ Hot being a ‘Yankee,’ I am not so good in emerg- 
encies,” I reply. “ Put them back yourself ; and here- 
after remember I am Miss Courtney, and have no taste 
for the Yankee freedom which permits the use of a 
lady’s name so familiarly.” 

He turns and gives me a look of such infinite sur- 
prise and indignation that I can scarcely understand, 


58 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

when the next moment he lifts his hat, bows politely, 
and says, — 

“ You shall have no further cause for complaint on 
that score. Miss Courtney ; I ask your ladyship’s par- 
don.” 

From that our quarrels are frequent, and sometimes 
too lengthy to be strictly romantic. 

He swings the kettle over his shoulder, and starts off 
rapidly toward the spring. Suddenly he turns, stojis, 
and exclaims, — 

“ Hello!” 

“What is it?” calls Bob, busy with the fire-making. 

“ Is tea palatable made of mineral water ?” he asks. 

“ Come back this way ; the freestone spring is beyond 
this pile of rocks to our left,” says Bob. 

“Excuse me,” he exclaims, seating himself upon a 
boulder. “ I am not going to rush unprepared into a 
private meeting of goblins and blood-thirsty spirits. 
‘Hay, never shake those gory locks at me,’ ” as Blanche 
impatiently motions him to go on, and then she says to 
him, impatiently, — 

“Unless you stir yourself we shall miss half of 
our ramble; that old, square castle-like bluff is to be 
Kenilworth, and we wish to explore it thoroughly by 
the ‘ pale moonlight.’ ” 

“ Shades of Leicester and Elizabeth defend us I” he 
cries, but does not move from his seat upon the rock 
until Major Crawford declares we are all as hungry as 
bears; then he swings the kettle over his head once 
more. 

“Jove is thirsty; Ganymede obeys the royal com- 
mand.” Half-way down the path ho turns and looks 
back. “ I say, mother, if I never return you will find 
my last will and testament in the left breast-pocket of 


GHOSTS THAT GUARD BON AIR.>^ 


59 


my Sunday coat ; the consequences of this mad exploit 
be on your head who have driven me to it.” 

And with this he disappears around the great ghostly 
rocks. After a little his voice comes back to us in a 
clear, ringing tone, loud and jubilant enough to have 
charmed the witches and gnomes from their hiding- 
places. The song ends, and he is among us again, and 
we gather round our little fire and wait the boiling 
of the kettle. 

The blaze reflected upon the wall, rising above us, 
throws weird, fantastic shapes upon the dull gray stone. 
Sometimes a leafless, dead bush, rustled by the wind, 
casts a dancing skeleton upon the giant blank wall 
towering so high above us the pines upon their flat 
top seem another mountain ; the shadows fall dark and 
heavy beyond our ten ting-ground. The moon will not 
pierce the gloom for an hour yet, and the long, fiend- 
like fingers of flame from our camp-fire steal into the 
dusky cells and uncanny niches and frighten the skulk- 
i/ig shadows from their coverts. The moonlight, how- 
ever, falls upon the open clearing where we are congre- 
gated, and drives away the ghostly, growing shapes 
that creep noiselessly under the rocky cliffs and pine 
thickets. 

Occasionally a breath of wind moves the branches of 
a tall poplar near by, and a transitory shade sweeps 
across our blaze and hurries on. 

“ Ghosts !” whispers Lincoln. “ I feel their uncanny 
presence.” And then in a low half-whisper, — 

“ For, Kohbie, this is haunted ground, 

Where spirits hold their nightly round : 

And when the witching hour is near, 

You’ll see strange beings gather here. 


60 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


“ So let me whisper in your ear 
Never to tell what passes here ; 

There’ll he a grand procession soon ” 

“Lincoln,” calls Mrs. Crawford, “you make me 
nervous.” 

“ That is only womanly,” he replies ; and then, — 
“ Mother, shall I pour the tea ? lam Ganymede, you 
know : only, ladies, there are but two cups, and we 
shall be forced to pass them around. Como round, 
everybody. Mr. Hodson, we can’t afford to starve 
you, our best friend.” 

We gather round and take our tea, in turn, from the 
two mugs, and eat our lunch by the blaze of the cheery 
blaze of the camp-fire. What a merry little meal it is ! 
and how the elves and gnomes peering at us from, the 
shadow-covered niches must envy us the royal good 
time we are having! How their memories, if spirits 
have memories, must go flying back to the good old 
days when they witnessed many such sights ! 

Bob lifts his cup, and says, — 

“Here’s to Bon Air: may we live to see her restored 
to her former glory.” 

For lack of vessels from which to drink an approval, 
we substitute a loud burst of applause, after which 
Blanche seizes the cup ; 

“ Here’s to the unknown Clara : if living, prosperity ; 
peace to her ashes if dead.” 

We shout approval; and Linccdn offers a toast: 

“ Here’s to the ghost whose guests we are : a long 
reign and a royal to the ghosts that guard Bon Air.” 

But the major brings down the house when he lifts 
the cup and proposes, — 

“Tennessee! her mountains, her rivers, her sun- 


GHOSTS THAT GUARD BON AIRJ’ 


61 


flooded valleys! May they flourish in beauty for- 
ever.” 

And then we leave the fire, that is now only a heap 
of white ashes and smoking chunks of half-burned 
logs. We follow the immense sandstone bluff, stand- 
ing upon the summit of the mountain like some great 
castle with its angles and sharp turns ; a great square 
mountain of rock, set upon the main mountain. The 
flat top is crowned with gnarled old pines, and a 
tower-like elevation at one extreme gives it still more 
the appearance of some old historic castle, one-half 
flooded in yellow moonlight and one-half obscured by 
shadow : 

“ The walls seem rising from the earth, 

Like Leicester’s towers at Kenilworth : 

And all the pageant that was there 
Seems floating in the moonlit air. 

“ Ay, beauty, jealousy, and pride 
In Dudley’s Hall walk side by side ; 

While Amy Kobsart seems to stand 
With fair Ophelia hand in hand.” 

‘‘Yes,” cries Blanche, as Bob ceases, “it is Kenil- 
worth. That is the queen’s chamber near the tower, 
where the moonlight falls fullest; they are in the 
Presence chamber just at this moment. When the 
wind stirs the leaves, and the moonlight falls upon the 
castle windows, I can see Leicester’s plumes nodding 
at the feet of offended Eoyalty. And now her Majesty 
retires ; the lights are out in the castle, and under the 
shadow of those dark, sobbing pines the villain Var- 
ney is bearing broken-hearted Amy Robsart. How I 
should like to mount to the tower and ring the alarm, 
and whisper in Dudley’s ear that Varney is a villain, 

6 


62 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

— an ambitious, murderous villain ! But it is too late, — 
the pageant passes out, the moonlight shifts, and I see 
once more the brilliant ball-room where Leicester 
lightly treads a measure with her Majesty.” 

“ I for one do not like your gloomy old courtiers,” 
says Lincoln. “Let’s conjure up a jollier crew, — jolly 
Jack Falstaif, for instance, or even the witches will be 
better.” 

“ Let’s come nearer home yet,” Bob suggests, “ and 
get Mr. Hodson to tell us some of the bloody legends 
connected with the place.” 

“ Most of the blood war spilt farther up the moun- 
t’n,” replies Mr. Hodson. “ The stage useter be plun- 
dered and the passengers murdered any time, when the 
old Yirginy road war the line o’ trav’l. The old Mc- 
Kinley house, they calls it, useter be a reg’lar stoppin’- 
place, an’ the trav’ler what went to bed thar didn’t 
alius git up next mornin’.” 

“Where’s the house?” inquires Bob. 

“ Over on the Backbone,” he replies. “ The buz- 
zards useter hold rig’ler camp-meetin’s in the gorge 
below that Backbone, and the gorge tells boutin it ter 
this day. Thar’s bones bleached white, and buckles 
and stirrups and things what don’t rot, ye know. Some 
’lows the mischief war done by the bushwhackers and 
guerrillas, but there’s them as knows better; it war 
murder done fur the belt the trav’ler carried. But 
that’s all done over now ; them dark days air gone ; 
the light air shinin’ on the mount’n, — the railroad lit it, 
— but tuk the travel, an’ the rogues hadn’t no call to 
tarry in these parts.” Then, as if speaking of light 
suggested the thought, he adds, — 

“ The moon ain’t mighty old yit, an’ don’t shine all 
night, — it won’t do to stay here much longer.” 


ADVENTURES. 


63 


We realize that he is right, so we give good-night to 
Kenilworth just as the moon swings round the tower 
and floods the castle with her light. The gray, grim 
walls glare at us as we scramble into the cart, and on, 
on over the sandy, level road toward the little hotel 
four miles distant, where they have expected us all 
day. On through the moonlight we go, making the 
woods ring indeed. 

“We swept the banjo string, 

Annie, don’t you know ? 

How we made the old woods ring, 

Long, long ago.” 


CHAPTEK YI. 

ADVENTURES. 

“ But whatsoever changes I can name, 

One institution always keeps the same, 

And soon or late enacts its noble part, — 

And that’s the grand and glorious human heart.” 

‘‘ Be you-uns a-tra veilin’ or a-gwine somewhar ?” 

There is a sudden halt, as a tall, fearless-looking man 
steps from the woods upon our left into the moonlit 
road before us and proffers this salutation. 

“Be you-uns a-travellin’ or a-gwine somewhar?” 

We are too much surprised to answer; the sight 
of the tall, straight man standing in our path, his 
pants stuffed into the long, coarse boot-tops, his broad- 
brimmed straw hat pushed back boldly from his face, 
suggestively snapping the hammer of the gun he is 


64 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

holding, with the muzzle appearing just above his right 
shoulder, ready for instant service, — it all seems a 
part of the weird scenes through which we have been 
but lately passing. 

The moment of silence seems an eternity as the 
young moonshiner continues to snap the hammer of 
his weapon. 

“Be you-uns a-travellin’ or a-gwine somewhar?” It 
is the third time the question is put, and the third 
putting of it calls for an answer : 

It is Mr. Hodson who gives it. 

“ We-uns be a-travellin’,’’ he replies in the slow drawl 
of the mountaineer. 

The tone seems to prove the desired shibboleth, for 
the tall figure steps to one side, slides the gun through 
his palms until the handle rests upon the toe of his 
boot; his right hand closes upon the muzzle, while 
with the left he points down the moonlighted road. 

“ Ef ye be a-travellin’ ye better take that thar big 
road and keep it.” 

We need no second bidding; the dark pine forest on 
either side only makes more distinct the broad, sandy 
highway. The moon shines bolt upright above it, and, 
looking back, we see that grim sentinel still standing in 
the road watching our going. 

“ One of your persecuted pets, Blanche,” observed 
Lincoln. “He would have been more civil had he 
known your sentiments regarding his business.” 

“ Probably he would have offered us lodging for the 
night,” replied Bob. 

“And maybe have taken us to his still,” cries 
Blanche. 

“Let’s go back and explain matters,” I suggest. 

“ That would be to rush into the jaws of ” 


ADVENTVRES. 


65 


Snap! something has broken. We are hurried out 
of the cart upon the lonely highway, with a dense 
thicket upon either side of us, and the recollection of 
that desperate, defiant-looking figure standing in the 
road not a quarter of a mile behind us. 

Poor little Mrs. Crawford is nervous in reality now. 

“What shall we do?” she cries. “We shall be mur- 
dered by the moonshiners in this lonely road. What 
on earth can we do ?” 

“ Do ? Why, ’light and hitch,” answers Lincoln, as 
he lifts her from the cart. 

“ Can’t we walk on ?” she inquires, as the wind in 
the branches behind us makes a low moan. 

“Just be easy, mother; we will soon be all ready 
for travelling again,” he assures her; and then the ma- 
jor, who is assisting Bob and the driver to repair the 
ruined trace, calls to him for the red string around his 
neck with which to tie the broken gear. 

“ N^ot with my life,” he answers. “ There is my 
watch, my purse, my silk hat, and my cane fresh from 
the Garden of Gethsemano, bought of a reliable dealer 
in Jerusalem relics, and to be had only at five hundred 
expositions and as many circuses.” 

He hands the strip of satin to his father, and con- 
tinues talking, rapidly, — 

“There is a great demand for Jerusalem stuffs, — 
sweet-scented beads, olive oils, and passion crosses. 
The demand has almost ruined the old city. There is 
not wood enough in Jerusalem to shelter a respectable 
frog; and ” 

“ Hush !” I lay my hand upon his arm. “ Did you 
hear anything?” 

“ I heard the owl scream and the cricket cry !” he 
replies, with mock fear. 


6 * 


66 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

In the shadow behind us I caught the faintest sound 
of cracking brush, and once a step as if some one had 
tripped upon a stone, — a cautious, creeping movement, 
as of a wild beast prowling. 

“It is only the spirits,” Lincoln declares. “ The moun- 
tains are full of them ; gay young fairies, bloody old 
Hecates, grizzled old witches which are ever on the 
war-path. ‘ The earth has bubbles as the water has, 
and these are of them.’ Miss Courtney, you are a little 
coward.’’ 

“ And you are too lazy to help tie that trace,” I re- 
tort. “ Can’t you see you are needed ?” 

“ ‘ I come, Graymalkin,’ ” he replies, but makes no 
move toward doing so. 

If I know the signs, Lincoln Crawford sees more in 
the shadows than the mountain myths ; he keeps his 
face toward the dark woods, and his right hand has 
never left his bosom. 

The major. Bob, and the driver are still busied with 
the broken trace, working by the light from the moon, 
and an occasional match when the light is insufficient. 

At length Bob calls to us that all is ready, and we joy- 
fully respond. 

“We will be compelled to travel slowly. It is not a 
first-class job, and the slightest jar ” 

Snap ! The frightened horses shy across the road, 
the cart strikes a projecting rock, and a loud snap tells 
of something more serious than a broken trace. The 
three men seize the bits of the plunging horses and 
hold them in their strong grasp. 

Lincoln still keeps his eye upon the dark woods, not 
so much as glancing toward the excitement in the road. 
At that moment I distinctly see a man’s figure among 
the thick undergrowth: it moves stealthily forward 


ADVENTURES. 


67 


upon its knees, and when Lincoln draws his hand from 
his bosom I see in the moonlight a glitter as of silver. 
The shadow rises, tall and straight as when we left it 
by the roadside: the horses almost break from the hold 
upon their bits. The figure rests his gun against a tree, 
and again the young moonshiner steps into the road, 
close to Lincoln’s side. 

“Put up yer irons, youngster; I ben’t a burglar.” 

He waves his hand with as much authority as 
though commanding a clan of wild-catters ; and then 
he strides across the road where the others are still 
holding the horses, and his voice rings out clear and 
friendly :• 

“ ’Pears to me as you-uns hev happened to a acci- 
dent.” He passes his hands hurriedly over the gear. 
“I ’low it’s the singletree,” he says, after the swift 
examination. “An’ I ’low as ye’ll lay the blame to 
my door, seein’ as twar me as skeered the bosses. I 
heard ye stop, an’ I followed to see what war the 
racket. I laid low till ye broke a secon’ time, when 
that youngster seen me, and taken out his shootin’- 
irons. He han’les ’em kind o’ nat’ral like, ha! ha!” 

By this time we are persuaded the moonshiner is not 
bent upon wholesale murder. We can almost join in 
his laugh. 

“ Waal, stranger,” he continues, when they have 
made a fuller investigation of the matter, “ye can’t 
camp here, an’ seein’ as ’twas me as caused the trouble, 
it’ll have to be me to holp ye out’n it. Take the bosses 
out an’ lead ’em. I’ll drag the kerridge.” 

The order is obeyed. We are in a curious and unex- 
pected predicament ; but now that the scare is over we 
are not sorry to form the moonshiner’s acquaintance ; 
indeed, the prospect of a night under the roof of these 


68 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. . 

mountain law-breakers is received with whispered de- 
light. 

“ Here, youngster,” he calls to Lincoln, “ sence you- 
uns seems to like the feel o’ them things, ye can carry 
my gun, ha I ha ! I’ll drag the wagon, you-uns can be 
soldier.” 

Lincoln removes the gun from its place against the 
tree, deposits it safely in the wagon, then steps forward 
to the side of the young mountaineer and takes hold of 
the wagon-tongue. To the man’s look of surprise he 
answers, — 

“ My friend, this carriage calls for two horses ; I in- 
tend to help you pull.” 

“ Sure ye ain’t got no pistils ?” he asks, good-humor- 
edly. “ Ye handles ’em mighty peart in the moonlight.” 

“ But only against my foes,” he replies. “ They soon 
learn a friend from an enemy.” 

The moonshiner chuckles in a pleased way; the 
young man has expressed his own sentiments. 

“ That’s gospil truth,” he affirms. And then, all things 
being ready, we hurry on through the uncertain light, 
over the mountain road, then through a shaded, se- 
cluded hy-road, until at length we draw up at the open 
door of an unpretentious cabin, and are invited to make 
ourselves ‘‘to home.” There are no concealments, no 
zigzag windings, no circuitous paths, no tricks, no 
manoeuvrings : we are the honored, trusted guests. 

After all, humanity is alike, and the true idea of 
honor, though not always handsomely expressed, is 
generally comprehended, even among the humblest. 


BLUE SPRING. 


C9 


CHAPTEE YII. 

BLUE SPRING. 

“ The mists above the morning rills 
Rise white as wings of prayer ; 
The altar-curtains of the hills 
Are sunset’s purple air.” 


Once more the old lumbering hack, with its hide- 
bound horses, of whose possession the crows grew hope- 
less years ago, waits to receive us. Nature rejoices in 
the new day. How beautiful the world, this upper world 
above the confusion and bustle of living I The flat, 
unbroken plain around us has donned its holiday dress 
to welcome us back to daylight ; through the ash and 
walnut verdure the blood-red beauty of the dogwood 
flaunts prominently in the morning sun ; a squirrel 
bounds across the road and, seating himself upon a 
fallen tree, plays bo-peep with us as he rubs his face 
with dew. Out from the moonshiner’s little cabin by 
the roadside we file like an army, and we shake the 
brown hands of the mountaineer and his wife, and 
start once more upon our journey. The broken trace 
has been replaced by a stouter one. These moun- 
taineers are Nature’s true workmen, after all. They 
are masters of any trade. Each one has his own im- 
provised workshop, is his own mechanic, shoemaker, 
and what not. They know their mountain herbs, and 
have the art of handling them with skill and cunning. 
They interpret their own Scripture to fit their own in- 
dividual needs. They are a law unto themselves, and 


70 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


can argue as good a case in a bad cause as a polished 
attorney. Long before we were awake they were astir. 
The click of the hammer and the music of the saw in 
the little shed told that some one was speedily apply- 
ing the remedy for the break-down. 

“ What a day !” I exclaim, as we step into the wet 
grass and inhale the bracing mountain air. Then into 
the wagon we jump, and away over the sandy road 
with singing and laughter and hurrahing. 

“ Youth, youth, how buoyant thy hopes I 
They ever turn, like marigolds, to the sun.” 


“Where shall we go?” asks Bob. “Not to Clarktown 
and the hotel yet. This is my old hunting-ground, 
you know, and I am familiar with all its attractions. 
There is a long sunny day before us. Let us visit the 
Eainbow.” 

My brother is a boy again in spite of the silver strands 
among the brown waves upon his temples. 

“ To the Eainbow, then !” cries Blanche. 

“ I claim the bag of gold,” insists the major. 

“ Lives, Lives !” cries Lincoln. “ Eemember Lazarus 
and Abraham’s bosom.” 

“Blanche,, let us have a song to cheer us on the 
way.” 

“‘Give us a song, the soldiers cried,’” begins the 
major. 

“ Father,” interrupts Lincoln, “ the request was to 
Blanche, and called for a song, not a speech ; but since 
you suggest Bayard Taylor, suppose we follow the ex- 
ample of the soldiers and all sing ‘Annie Laurie’? 
Blanche, your age — I beg pardon, your voice — entitles 
you to the leadership. Mother will follow you. Miss 


BLUE SPRING. 


71 


Courtney will take the alto. I will do the tenor. The 
others will round up the full period with their basso 
profundo. One, two, three, ready.” 

Old Maxwelton’s bonny braes never dreamed of any 
such melody. The very woods ring with it. Scared wild 
game, catching the unusual sound of music, lift their 
heads and dart to their coverts. Across Little Creek, 
through a lonely pine thicket, then over the white, 
sandy road for a mile more, and we come to the rise 
studded with grass and wild-flowers, and before us 
breaks a vision like that the enraptured eye of Israel’s 
prophet beheld when for a moment it rested upon 
the glories of Canaan. The world of forest and vale 
and mountain opens before us, clothed in garniture fit 
for a king ; right royal purple, “ blue as Aaron’s priestly 
robe when Aaron took it off to die.” The rocks, with 
genuine artistic effect, are arranged in a great semi- 
circle, beneath which in the blue depths nestles the fer- 
tile cove, watered by many a mountain stream which ' 
trickles merrily down the arched bluff. The whole is 
capped with myrtle, oak, and ivy. 

What shall we call it ?” asks Blanche, as she stands 
upon the cliff watching the purple sea below. 

“ The mountain people call it the Blue Spring Cove,” 
answers Bob, “ and I for one pronounce it no misno- 
mer.” 

“ I agree with you,” she replies ; “ but, as a general 
thing, the mountaineers kill their country by out- 
landish names. For instance, who can ever feel any 
fondness for ‘ Wild-Cat Cove,’ or ‘ Big Lick,’ or ‘ Devil’s 
Creek’ ? There is other scenery in our mountains not 
half so fine as this, but idealized by more euphonious 
names. Listen, is not that the falling of water?” 

Yes, the Eainbow fall is just at the extremity of the 


<72 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

bluff. We will go there, and afterwards go below,” says 
Eobert. “ Mrs. Crawford, do you feel equal to it ?” 

‘‘ Indeed, Mr. Courtney, you insult me. Your moun- 
tain air has given me back my youth. Already I feel 
able to follow anywhere you may lead.” 

“ That being the case, I will offer my services where 
they are needed,” says Lincoln. “ The others, not being 
so young as yourself, may slip upon these dangerous 
rocks.” 

“ Nonsense!” cries his mother, “ you may go on hunt- 

ing your frogs and frightful bugs ” Suddenly she 

stops with an exclamation of wonder, “Ah, is not that 
divine ?” 

“ Mother, you are losing your religion,” Lincoln de- 
clares ; then, with admiration, “ though truly this is 
almost enough to supplant divinity, — 

“ ‘ Where tints of the earth 
And the hues of the sky, 

In color though varied, 

In beauty may vie.' " 

Don’t,” exclaims Blanche. “Byron is much too 
mad for a jaunt like ours. We have no hope of getting 
back with all of our senses as it is, and if you turn Byron 
loose among us who can answer for the consequences ?” 

“Well, how is Whittier, then ?” he asks. 

“ ‘ Oh for the breath of the vineyards, 

Of apples and nuts and wine, 

For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
Down the grand old river Khine.’ " 

“No, no,” she cries. “Would you row your boat 
over the Eainbow? You are madder than the poet. 
As for vineyards, however, they are all round you. 
Look at that grapevine and the long, low swing hang- 


BLUE SPRING. 


73 


ing from it. I used to think it paradise to swing in a 
grapevine like that ; and yonder, unless I mistake, is a 
muscadine vine, — and huckleberry, there is a world of 
it below the bluff.” 

“ And the wine is not altogether improbable,” says 
Bob. “We shall not find the juice of the grape, but 
we may fall upon a wild-cat still. Come with me. I 
will show you the council-room and seat of a Cherokee 
chief, under the jutting crags of the mountain.” 

The blue creek drips through many a crevice in 
the rock, and, scooping its own basin, affords a cool 
draught in the wilderness. Drinkers are few, however; 
sometimes the wild deer stoops and quenches her thirst 
at the Blue Spring; sometimes a fox rests a moment 
beside the pool, or a lonely bird dips its wing in the 
water ; and sometimes the spring serves more ignoble 
purposes. 

Away back under the bluff, down more than a hun- 
dred feet, a large room-like opening has been hollowed 
by the continuous dripping of the water. A twelve- 
foot ledge in front of the opening winds the entire 
length of the Eainbow Bluff, a balcony built by nature ; 
far below this the Blue Spring Cove may be dimly seen 
through the ever-clinging blue mists. The sturdy old 
century-grown poplars and oaks are mere pigmies 
below and above us. The bluff upon which we stand 
curves into a kind of rainbow, opening toward the 
valley, and the prismatic fall of water pouring from one 
extreme of the great rocks, with a miniature rainbow 
spanning the white, foamy flood when the sun glances 
ujDon it, forever settles the title to the name. 

Under the shelving bluff a tiny spring breaks through 
just in the centre of the cavern’s roof Tempted by the 
convenience of the water and the obscurity of the loca- 

7 


n 


74 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

tion, the moonshiners for years successfully plied their 
illicit trade here. A trough, the remains of a furnace, 
traces of a fire, some half-burned logs, and a pile of 
white ashes suggest a recent flight ; a small keg thrust 
out of sight, still telling the odor of brandy, a broken 
pipe, and a stool overturned show that the flight had 
been hasty. Had the “shiners” heard the rumors of 
raiders, or had the increase of summer visitors and 
sight-seers driven them to a more secluded retreat ? 

Eobert turns the barrel upon its base and applies his 
nose. “ Brandy 1” he ejaculates. “ Backings, I suspect. 
What a pity to defile God’s best handiwork with such 
traffic !” 

“ I don’t think so,” says Blanche, in defence of the 
law-breakers. Of course, we are all horrified, and 
seeing it, she continues, — 

“ Ho, I am not joking. These people in this desert 
region are almost destitute of the means of a live- 
lihood. The land will produce apples. It is brandy 
or starvation, and human nature but acts the human. 
The law sets its lynx-eyed officers upon their trail, and 
the blood-hounds track them to their retreats, seize 
upon and destroy their property, and drag the poor 
wretches to judgment as jubilantly as if they led Caesar 
in chains. They have no right to destroy the property 
of these people, and they have no right to plunder them 
while winking at the false gauges of the wholesale 
brandy-maker who fills the land with his vile stuffs. Of 
the two, in justice, right, and humanity, I am on the 
side of the moonshiner.” And the moonshiner has a 
lovely champion standing under the shadow of the 
dull gray ledge, with the long graceful ferns nodding a 
feathery fringe from the upper edge just over her head 
while she denounces the law of the land which crushes 


BLUE SPRING. 


75 


where it should protect. Some six-feet men are not 
brave enough for that. I reach over and offer my hand. 

“Count me on your side, or rather on the moon- 
shiners’ j” and then Bob declares we are turning law- 
breakers and winking at law-breaking. 

Major Crawford thinks we are imbibing too freely of 
mountain air, and growing too bold. 

Lincoln suggests the imbibing may have been from 
the keg, and looks to see if it is really empty. 

“ Never mind,” decides Mrs. Crawford, “ we will go 
to the hotel soon. I understand the house is pretty 
well filled with guests. They will forget their heresies 
and wild ideas in making conquests.” 

“Never!” cries Blanche. “Nell, let us record it 
here upon this rock, ‘ Nary a beau ; no keeping o’ steady 
company' to draw our thoughts from sylvan shades and 
rural pleasures.” 

“ Good enough,” I reply. “ We wish no beaux. We 
have had them and know their worth. Have we not, 
Blanche?” 

“Yes, their worthlessness,” she replies, at the same 
moment putting her hand upon the tiny thread of gold 
at her throat. It snaps, and a black onyx locket falls 
with a sharp click upon the stone floor and bounds off 
the bluff. 

Lincoln leans over to discover if possible where the 
trinket has lodged, but she lays her hand upon his 
shoulder, saying, — 

“ Never mind ; it was an old toy and has had its day. 
It is not worth a climb down that fearful-looking preci- 
pice. It has found a nobler sepulchre than it deserves ; 
and this to its memory.” 

She leans over and drops the broken chain: it 
catches in a laurel-bush and hangs there. 


76 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

A crow near by, evidently interested in the perform- 
ance, flaps its wings and utters a jubilant “caw, caw,” 
as if to say, “ That is for me j that is for me.” 

“You ugly bird, to rejoice over the loss of my 
trinket,” cries Blanche. And then we turn to hear the 
major saying, — 

“ This is the loveliest spot we have seen.” 

“ I don’t think it is so fine as Bon Air,” dissents Bob. 
“It lacks the majesty, one may almost say the sub- 
limity, which hovers about Bon Air.” 

“It may lack something of the grandeur, but it 
leaves Bon Air far behind in point of beauty,” replies 
Blanche. “I should have liked to be here when the 
still was running. Just imagine the moonshiners sitting 
under the ivy, summer afternoons, the blue space above 
them and bluer space below ; even nature aiding the 
illegal trade as the smoke from the still, rising grace- 
fully above the rocks, mingles and loses itself in the 
blue clouds. And imagine the blaze from the furnace 
‘ gleaming redder than the moon,’ while they ply their 
trade on dark nights; and then fancy ourselves sud- 
denly dropping down upon them.” 

“I should rather imagine ourselves getting away 
from them,” says Lincoln. “ Courtney, how do you 
account for flint in these parts?” He stoops and fishes 
some scraps of flint rock from the bed of the stream. 

“ Arrow-heads, broken arrow-heads, as I live ! They 
were undoubtedly brought here by the Indians,” ex- 
claims Bob ; “ and that reminds me that we have not 
yet seen the seat of the great chief. It is not so large 
nor altogether so commodious as the moonshiners’ camp, 
but it commands a better view. Come this way and 
we will find it. Go slow ; these rocks are treacherous.” 

Bound the arched Bain bow Bluff we slowly wend our 


BLUE SPRING. 


77 


way, until at last we stand under the magnificent natu- 
ral roof where tradition says the red men met their 
chiefs in council. A little to one side of the arch the 
place commands a view of the only possible pass down 
the declivity, while its sandstone roof shields it from 
attack above. About the floor of the cavern bits of 
broken arrow-heads and fragments of Indian relics tell 
their own story. 

“ How strange,” remarks Lincoln, busy collecting the 
treasures, “ that so few people have found these places!” 

“ I wonder why the wild-catters did not locate their 
still here?” says Blanche. 

“ Because the spring is under the other bluff,” Bob 
answers. “ Moreover, it is more retired. The savage, 
you know, did not care to hide himself. His life was 
legal.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” she replies ; “ else he 
would not have been driven from his wilds. The blood- 
hounds were put upon his track also.” 

“Miss McChesney,” inquires Lincoln, “have you 
joined the society for the protection of the persecuted ? 
for if you have I am a subject. Let us move on. I 
am desirous father shall have his bag of gold at the 
end of the Bainbow. You know I am his sole heir.” 

Over fern-banks and ivy-beds, huckleberry and 
bamboo, we push our way, until, at length, we stand at 
the extreme end of the Eainbow ; the oaks nod their 
tops, and the poplar shakes its plumy verdure fifty and 
one hundred feet below us, the cliffs that hold them 
overlooking others still farther down the mountain. 

Lincoln draws a pistol and takes aim at the opposing 
bluff. Pop! pop! pop! The mountain is suddenly 
full of hunters. The sound strikes full against the 
rock and bounds to the next one, to be hurled to an- 
7 * 


78 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

other and yet another, until the woods are alive with 
the noise of battle. 

“ Let me shoot,” begs Blanche, holding her hand for 
the weapon. 

“Are you so unfeminine as that?” asks Lincoln, — 
“ so regardless of all the laws which regulate the female 
world as to forget your nerves or deny them? Nerves, 
my dear friend, are so very feminine that they have 
become virtues, as everything feminine must eventually 
do, and to declare oneself wanting in nerves is to argue 
oneself eminently unwomanly.” 

We all try our skill at awaking the echoes, and then 
we separate, each to find his own bag of gold, treasure, 
— heaps and heaps of it j pleasures that the yellow dross 
cannot hope to purchase. At noon we meet and again 
ascend to the upper world, to Hodson, and the cart, and 
we are off for Clarktown. 


AT CLARKTOWN. 


79 


CHAPTEK YIII. 

AT CLARKTOWN. 


“Now, they stroll in the beautiful walks, 

Or loll in the shade of the trees, 

Where many a whisper is heard 
That never is heard by the breeze : 

And hands are commingled with hands, 
Regardless of conjugal rings ; 

And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt, — 
And that’s what they do at the Springs !” 


We draw up before the long, low white house that 
glories in the name of hotel. The summer idlers are 
not fully out yet, we know, and hence we are surprised 
at the number of people — men, women, arid children 
— congregated about the door of the modest little 
building. We are tired, and our garments are crushed 
and soiled with climbing over the rocks and through 
the bushes ; altogether, it is no easy matter to face 
this fresh, well-dressed crowd at the hotel dinner-hour. 
A tall, heavy-built man, with gray beard, comes to 
meet us, the children following at his heels crying 
“ Uncle Billy !” “ Uncle Billy !” An old lady with gi’ay 
hair looks up from a lap full of fancy work and gives 
us a cool stare. Old ladies who go to summer water- 
ing-places to do fancy work and exhibit old laces, are 
always ready to look with disapproval upon new-com- 
ers. A young girl in a white Mother Hubbard leaves 
off swinging to a post to watch our descent from the 
wagon. A young lady talking to a gentleman behind 


80 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

her fan forgets her flirtation in our arrival. A group 
of young men smoking under a large chestnut-oak 
show the usual interest in a fresh arrival. For the 
moment we are the central attraction, and doubtless 
would suffer some embarrassment but that the ringing 
of a bell at this moment calls for attention. The re- 
sponse is immediate: the young girl lets go her hold 
upon the post with startling alacrity ; the aristocratic 
old lady at once drops her lace-work ; the pretty girl 
suspends her flirtation without comment ; the old men 
seize their wives, the young mothers their babies ; and 
helter-skelter, pell-mell, with a simultaneous movement 
of delight, the crowd break for the dining-room as 
impatient as though a six months’ siege was suddenly 
ended and this the one chance of a dinner! The young 
men under the chestnut-tree and the gray-bearded pro- 
prietor alone remain of all the crowd. 

Eobert springs to the ground, shakes hands cordially 
with “ Uncle Billy,” and introduces us. Mrs. Crawford 
is safely landed, and soon stands by my side on the 
narrow porch. Blanche pushes aside Eobert’s extended 
hand, and puts her foot upon the cart-wheel on the 
other side. ‘‘ Take care,” calls the major, but it is too 
late ; the toe slips, there is a frantic clutching at the air, 
a flutter of white skirts, and Blanche McChesney lands 
in the arms of a tall young man, who springs forward 
just in time to prevent a serious accident and more 
serious embarrassment. The skirts are quickly brought 
into subjection, and a very pretty face covered with very 
red blushes looks up from the lapel of a very stylish 
summer suit, while the lady meekly and timidly ten- 
ders her thanks, and the gallant gentleman returns to 
his friends under the oak-tree. 

As we pass into the hall and up the little stairs 


AT CLARKTOWN. 81 

leading to our rooms, Lincoln looks at Blanche and 
hums softly, beneath his breath, — 

“ Will you walk into my parlor? 

Said the spider to the fly.” 

She laughs and asks, — 

“ Was it gracefully done? Was the trap well set?’* 

“Well set, indeed; but dear Mrs. Spider, the wheel 
was a trifle too high and the skirts a trifle too short 
for grace.” 

He dodges the blow aimed at him, deposits the basket 
he carries upon the floor, and disappears. 

We see nothing more of him until dinner, when he 
strolls leisurely in with the hero of the wagon-wheel. 
Blanche blushes as he introduces her to “ Dr. Eeed.” 
Dr. Eeed seats himself opposite her, Lincoln sits by me, 
Eobert on Blanche’s right chats with Mrs. Crawford, 
while the major occupies the seat of honor at the head. 

As the conversation becomes general and the embar- 
rassment of the first meeting wears away, jest and 
repartee open the avenue to friendship. Lincoln leans 
over and whispers in my ear, — 

“ Methinks there is romance in the air.” 

“Honsense,” I reply. “Didn’t you hear our vow 
made at the Eainbow ?” 

“Yes; it will prove as lasting as Highland Mora’s 
vows,” he prophesies. 

“ Well, Miss Courtney, why could you not tumble 
head foremost from the wagon and save me the trouble 
of finding a hero for you ?” 

“ Indeed, you need not trouble yourself,” I retort. “ I 
don’t like go-betweens, and can do my own trapping. 
Have you found yourself a sweetheart yet ?” 

/ 


82 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“Am undecided. The girl in the Mother Hubbard 
seems too loose-jointed ; the sentimental one is moon- 
eyed.” 

“ Are you dyspeptic ?” Blanche’s question tempts us 
to listen. 

“ I have never been accused of it, nor have I ever 
been the object of such a suspicion,” replies Hr. Eeed. 
“ May I ask what suggests such a question ?” 

“ Merely because you do not rush for the table, when 
the bell rings, as if afraid the provisions will be ex- 
hausted before you can get there.” 

“ There are several watering-place customs I do not 
follow,” he says, with a smile. “ I do not play whist, 
nor gossip, nor flirt.” 

He looks straight at her. He has thrown down the 
gauntlet. Lincoln touches my foot under the table. 

“People have reasons for their peculiarities, some- 
times,” she replies. “ Burnt babies usually shun the 
blaze which scorched them.” 

The insinuation tells ; a red glow tinges his cheek 
for a moment, and his eyes flash one quick glance at 
her, then fall. 

Bobert comes to the rescue by rising and leading the 
way to the parlor, at the door of which Hr. Eeed bows 
and leaves us. 

“ Haven’t you missed it ?” asks Lincoln. “ Miss 
McChesney, your hero is not a hero after all ; he with- 
drew at the outset. A coward, a conceited coward. 
But don’t cry your pretty eyes out, Mrs. Spider ; you 
shall have another; there are flies enough, — great 
green monsters, blue-bottles, timid little blackies, any 
kind 3^ou like ; only don’t drop into his arms at sight ; 
and whatever you do, don’t play the suspension act 
again — unless your skirts are longer.” 


AT CLARKTOWN. 


83 


“Lincoln Crawford, I heartily wish you were in 
Iowa !” she cries. 

“ Wish me in Halifax, dear, — that’s a more fashion- 
able resort ; or consign my hones to the placid bottom 
of the Eed Sea. My friends have been sent thither, 
and it would be less lonely, you know.” 

“ Can’t you be quiet ?” she complains. “ I wish to 
talk some.” 

“ To be sure you do ; you are a woman. Mrs. Spider, 
you have the floor. Alas ! you have no flies ; what a 
pity the little fellow was so fearfully timid !” 

A gentleman standing upon the porch just outside 
the window moves out of sound of the voices, saying, 
half aloud, “ Discretion is the better part of valor ; and 
her eyes are divinely beautiful. Mrs. Spider, we shall 
meet again.” 

The summer afternoon wears away in dreamy, half- 
defined, restful indolence. The sun lazily creeps be- 
yond the sentinel rocks. We dreamily doze, and wake, 
and doze again in that lotus-like way that comes natu- 
rally with the summer-time. At length, Blanche’s 
voice calls me from my dream. 

“Hell, do wake up! It is five o’clock, and we must 
see the spring and have a ramble before the sun sets.” 

I open my eyes and meet the blue ones bent over me. 

“ I agree to the spring part, but no more rambles this 
day ; I am tired, unmistakably, unromantically tired. 
How do you endure so much ? You are frailer than I, 
a good deal.” 

“ Yes,” she replies. “ I am a ‘ weakly critter,’ as our 
mountain friends say, and sometimes I rebel that the 
Being who planned me cramped so much fire and will 
into so poor a casket.” 


84 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

She slips a bright steel dagger in the yellow coils of 
hair, and poises her graceful head like a saucy canary- 
bird to see the effect in the little mirror which hangs 
above the small poplar stand that does triple duty as 
washstand, bureau, and table. Her white wool dress 
falls in graceful folds about the slender figure, and as 
she fastens a cluster of ox-eye daisies in the lace at 
her throat, I vote the toilet perfect. 

“You are too fine, my lady-bug,” I say, as I shake 
out the folds of a blue linen ; “ you will take our moun- 
tain rustics by storm, spoil your pretty dress, and take 
cold beside.” 

“ Pandora, is the box empty ?” she questions, merrily. 
“ My dress, although white, is woollen, therefore warm. 
If we are not to have a ramble there is no probability 
of spoiling it; as for the heart-havoc, it’s every man 
for himself, you know. Are you ready ?” 

“ In a moment.” 

“ Yery well ; I will meet you at the head of the nar- 
row little steps as you go down.” 

She vanishes, and I hear her light step crossing the 
narrow hall and, at length, stop at the door at the end. 

“ Lincoln, we are ready.” 

There is a quick response, an opening door, and I 
meet them at the head of the steps, as arranged, and we 
are off. The same cool stare of inspection meets us as 
we pass through the crowd assembled upon the little, 
low porch. The old lady with her lace-work gives a 
gesture of approval. IVe have good clothes; we can 
pass. The moon-eyed young lady leans gracefully 
upon the long stick of her parasol and smiles compla- 
cently ; we have brought our own knights-errant, there- 
fore will not molest her kingdom. The girl in the 
Mother Hubbard has altered her costume to the extent 


AT CLARKTOWN. 


85 


of a bright crimson belt ; a ribbon of the same color 
holds her loose black hair in a half-finished plait upon 
the shoulders. 

Kobert and the major are sitting among a group of 
gentlemen, from whom the major is gleaning wonderful 
information concerning the mountain. The former 
rises at our approach, and, taking possession of the 
white sunshade which Blanche carries daintily poised 
above her head, saunters gracefully along by her side. 

Lincoln Crawford turns to me, — 

“ Sis, can you explain why it is that I invariably fall 
to your tender mercies ? It cannot be due to the law 
of ‘the eternal fitness of things,’ do you think ?” 

“ I rather think it is one of those necessary evils not 
to be avoided,” I reply. “ There is no one else to en- 
tertain you, and you necessarily fall to me. Is that 
the spring under that long roof below the hill?” 

“That is they ; there are four of them under that 
shed within three feet each of the other. Chalybeate, 
two, freestone, and ” 

“And what?” I inquire. 

“Eeally, I cannot say; but it is there, under one of 
those churn-shaped tubs. In all there are four of them. 
What syrup ?” 

He flourishes the iron-rusted dipper, the customary 
drinking vessel at all watering-places, probably because 
it tells the presence of iron more distinctly than glass 
or cocoa, and, moreover, assists in seasoning the water. 

“ What a very pretty place !” Blanche exclaims. 
“Those little cottages half hidden among the trees 
upon the surrounding hills are wonderfully picturesque 
and charming ; and the best thing one finds is, there 
is no fashionable foolishness.” 

I suggest the lace- work. 

8 


86 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ Well, that is harmless, even though a society craze,” 
she says. “ Let’s cross the branch and peep over that 
bluff yonder.” 

“It is too late,” Eobert declares; “moreover, an 
immense flat rock covers the only accessible road, and 
your costume is too pretty to be spoiled so quickly, 
Miss McOhesney.” 

He looks admiringly at the slight figure, a warm light 
in his brown eyes. She takes no notice of the compli- 
ment, but turning to Lincoln says, in her regal, charm- 
ing way, “ Yonder, I think, is a bunch of pale blue 
gentian growing just beyond that rock. Get it for me.” 

“ Blue gentians !” he exclaims. “ Is Botany a lost 
art with you ?” 

“ It was never an art at all according to my mas- 
ters,” she replies. “ I was taught to believe it a 
science.” 

“ Art or science,” he replies, “ it will not bloom blue 
gentians in June. This is what we plain, every-day 
Americans, in our unaesthetical way of handling things, 
would call Phlox. Don’t look in the spring, Harcissa, 
but come home ; the supper-bell is ringing, and there 
will not be one admirer left to ensnare, unless it be the 
dyspeptic Eeed. Come, Miss Courtney, you will not 
have a curl left in your bonny brown tresses if a breath 
of this mountain fog touches them. To our tea ; mother 
will be nervous and father cross, to say nothing of the 
gallant dyspeptic.” 

Once more we pass through the ordeal of criticism, 
and then, I think, the Clarktown circle of summer 
idlers receives us and subsides into its former unruffled 
calm. We soon learn to take our places upon the little 
porch and to hold our own in regular boarding-house 
fashion. 


AT CLARKTOWN. 


87 


The moon is flooding the earth with mellow beauty ; 
the stillness of nature is unbroken, but for the wonted 
noises of the hotel. The guests are gathered as usual, 
and through the open window a sweet girl-voice comes 
floating to me, where I sit upon the moonlit gallery, 
full, rich, and tender, singing the raptures of Killarney : 

“ Angels fold their wings, and rest 
In this Eden of the West: 

Beauty’s home, Killarney, — 

Ever-fair Killarney.” 

After a while the music changes, and Lincoln Craw- 
ford’s clear tenor comes through the window, — 

“Will you walk into my parlor? 

Said the spider to the fly.” 

Again is heard the hum of voices in conversation ; 
then, a few low, plaintive chords, and a strange but 
rich masculine voice sings, — 

“Oh, fair dove, oh, fond dove. 

Oh, dove with the white, white breast. 

Leave me alone, the dream is my own. 

And the heart is full of rest.” 

Parting the curtains, I peep in. Dr. Eeed stands by 
Blanche’s side, and while she plays, he softly sings; 
and Lincoln bends over my shoulder and whispers in 
my ear, nodding toward the piano, — 

“ She has got you, Mr. Fly.” 


88 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

LOOKINa BACKWARD. 

“ Out of the shadow of sadness, 

Into the sunshine of gladness, 

Into the light of the blest ; 

Out of a land very dreary. 

Out of the world of the weary. 

Into the rapture of rest.” 

What a queer little place we have found! A sum- 
mer resort almost free from the evils of summer re- 
sorts in general. The hotel is a little frame structure, 
two stories high, with a low veranda that serves as 
general gathering-place. The rooms, tiny birds’-nests, 
scrupulously clean and wonderfully pleasant. Above 
the two doors of the sitting-room or parlor, two long 
rifles, each held in its place by a couple of broad- 
branched deer-antlers, suggest the game that is most 
abundant in the mountains. Two pictures adorn the 
whitewashed walls : one a stag drinking from a run- 
ning brook; the other is a frightful illustration of a 
“royal Bengal tiger.” There are several rugs placed 
here and there on the floor, — a wolf, a bear, and a wild- 
cat skin ; beauties fit to adorn a palace. 

The little room allotted to Blanche and me glories in 
one low south window, looking upon a dark, fragrant 
wood from which the scent of wild-flowers is borne to 
us day and night. Lost Creek winds with a monoto- 
nous wail just below the window; just within the 
shelter of the woods Lost Creek disappears in one of 
the numerous caverns of the mountain. 


LOOKING BACKWARD. 


89 


Uncle Billy and Aunt Sally run their hotel on a dif- 
ferent plan from other hotels ; the lights are out at 
nine o’clock, the breakfast-bell rings at six. 

Aunt Sally does her own work mostly, and likes to 
have guests prompt at their meals. 

The lights have been out half an hour, but we are still 
up, enjoying the moonlight as it gilds the tops of the 
trees and silvers in the ripples of Lost Creek. 

Lincoln has gone on a fox-chase, Mrs. Crawford has 
a headache, Blanche and Bobert are entertaining each 
other on the gallery, and in the sitting-room Uncle 
Billy is giving the major and me an account of some of 
his hunting adventures. Aunt Sally fell asleep over her 
yarn long ago, and is nodding in the corner as her good 
man spins his yarn for our entertainment. 

After a little there is silence ; Uncle Billy is nodding, 
too, and I steal out and join the two in the moonlight 
on, the porch. 

“ Mr. Courtney,” Blanche is saying, “ may I ask you 
a question ?” 

“ Two of them, if I may be granted a similar priv- 
ilege,” he answers. 

“Yery good. How did you chance , to join our 
party ?” she inquires. 

“ Hot chance at all ; I planned it,” replies Bob. “ I 
met Major Crawford several times in my travels, and 
once he stopped at my home for several weeks ; he 
came down, you may remember, last year with a party 
of prospectors from Iowa, but was taken sick near my 
town and they were compelled to leave him. I per- 
suaded him to remain with me until he recovered. He 
regretted the disappointment of not seeing the moun- 
tains so much that we planned this excursion before he 
left. That is all of it ; we are only carr^dng out last 

8 * 


90 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

year’s programme. ISTow it is my turn : Miss McChes- 
ney, how did you chance to fall in with the Crawfords ?” 

She laughs, and says, — 

“ Mot ‘ chance,’ but Providence. My mother, a widow, 

lived in B . I was at a boarding-school in L , 

from which place I was unexpectedly called to attend 
her funeral. When our affairs had been settled there 
was nothing left, and I was alone in the world except 
for an old Dives of an uncle and his fashionable wife. 
He, my uncle, came to me and offered to educate me 
provided I put up no claim against him afterwards. 
He despised poor kinsfolk, and had no disposition to 
have them around. I gave the required promise readily, 
for the poor kinswoman had no wish to be around, and 
was soon located in an Eastern Conservatory of Music, 
preparing herself for a concert-singer, as her voice 
seemed to be her only heritage. 

“ One evening I sang at a private entertainment given 
by Major Crawford’s relatives, who lived in the city. 
The major and his wife were present, and somehow — 
.1 cannot explain it : I am satisfied fate did it — I was 
invited to spend the coming holidays at their home in 
Iowa. I was young, only eighteen, and entirely friend- 
less and alone ; they were very kind, and I felt drawn 
toward them. I stayed several weeks in their pleasant 
home; there were but two children, Lincoln and a 
little girl of six summers, who died in my arms when I 
had been there but three weeks. 

“ The little thing had loved me devotedly from the 
first, and she had worked her way into my heart the 
moment 1 saw her, with her little hands full of white 
lilies, which she had begged of the gardener and 
brought to remind me of my home, she said. 

“ I had none, but the recollection of a little cottage 


LOOKING BACKWARD. 


91 


under the magnolias away South was very precious. 
But, alas, the little Northern flower withered almost as 
soon as the creamy lily-blossoms. 

“ I shall never forget the afternoon on which she died. 
The sun was setting ; his kiss was flooding the river 
with crimson ; I lifted tlie little creature in my arms, 
not dreaming the messenger was so near. She nestled 
in my bosom and whispered, — 

“ ‘ Sing, Blanche ; sing about your pretty home.’ 
“She clasped her arms around my neck while I sang 
the little Scotch ballad she so loved. I had sung it 
many times, the simple child-hj^mn, — sung it quiet 
evenings when she had loved to listen ; but I sang of 
my own sunny home in the South. I had never 
thought of heaven until the dying child asked for the 
song to cheer her way through the shadow-valley. 

“ ‘ The earth is flecked wi’ flowers, mony blossoms rich and gay, — 
The birdies warble sweetly, for the Father made them sae ; . 
But these sights and these soun’s will as naething he to me, 
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. 

“ ‘ Like a haim to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, 

I would fain now he ganging unto my Saviour’s breast. 

For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me. 
And carries them Himsel’ to His ain countree.’ 

“ The little feet were drawn up as the river rolled too 
near, and when I unclasped the arms clinging to my 
neck they were cold. 

“I laid the fair clay back upon the couch, the lily I 
had worn at my throat fell, crushed and fragrant, upon 
her breast; and she, the frail blossom that had lent its 
fragrance to my exile in a strange land, lay cold and 
white as the broken lily bloom. 


92 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


“My own health was poor; I found I should be 
forced to abandon my studies. My heart yearned for 
the warm skies and healing winds of the South land, 
but Mrs. Crawford would not listen to my going. She 
was lonely and desolate, and for the child’s sake the 
parents gave me a place in their home, and better, a 
place in their hearts. About that time my uncle’s wife 
died, and he offered to make the poor relation his house- 
keeper. I wrote thanking him for the honor, intima- 
ting at the same time that poverty is sometimes too 
proud to successfully fill a servant’s place. Soon after 
that he died, leaving me his entire fortune (because, he 
declared, I possessed the pride to grace it), which was 
very good of him ; he might have left it to an orphan 
asylum, you know. Since then I have made my home 
with the Crawfords ; that was five years ago.” 

“ Then you are not Northern born ?” asks Eobert, 
and she laughs. 

“ Place your finger upon my pulse, and you will find 
it throbs ; my heart, and it beats. There is blood in 
»,my veins, — warm, red, Southern blood, not that blue 
jmixture which abounds beyond the Ohio. I am a 
genuine lazy, ease-loving Southern girl.” 

“ But you chose the North,” says Bob. 

“ No more than Dante, driven from Italy, chose exile. 
The North chose me ; it offered me a livelihood, self- 
earned, and still a hold upon respectability. Some 
women are fools enough to prefer work rather than 
starvation, you know.” 

Here Bob laughs aloud, and reminds her that the 
Southern women are growing more useful and inde- 
pendent, and she says, — 

“ Yes, but it was not so until the men put on petti- 
coats.” 


LOOKING BACKWARD. 


93 


And Bob laughs again, so loud that an owl bidden 
in a tall tree flaps its wings, shrieks “ Woo-oo,” and 
with a rustling of the leaves flies off into the darkness 
of a pine thicket near by. 

A horn sounds long and clear down somewhere be- 
yond the woods ; now low and faint, now loud and musi- 
cal, as the hunter ascends a bluff or descends into a gorge. 
Sweet and clear it comes nearer, and a hound responds 
to the sound j another and yet another and another, 
until the full pack is baying, the hunters hallooing, the 
horn winding in and out among the glens until the open 
pack is fairly started in the track of Sir Eeynard. 

“ How I should like to join them !” says a voice from 
the door-way, and. looking up we see the major, who 
promptly responds to the first call of the horn. 

“Yes,” he continues, “I should like to exchange 
years with you to-night, Courtney.” 

“Which means,” says Bob, “that I am missing a 
good hunt. Well, sir, if it were possible I would carry 
twenty years of your fifty until you had your hunt, in 
defiance of the lesson learned when a boy of the Samson 
of mythology, who undertook to shoulder the globe 
Avhile old Atlas went prowling among the orchards of 
the Hesperides.” 

“Why not go anyhow, if you’re a mind ter?” asks 
Uncle Billy. He too, the sly old hunter, has heard the 
horn. “ Fifty years ain’t so big a load ; I carries five 
more, but I can follow the hounds day or night.” 

Again the baying of the dogs sounds in the still 
night, and a rifle, sharp and clear, rings out three times 
in the woods beyond the spring. 

“ They are coming nearer,” cries the major, mount- 
ing a bench that stands near. “I can almost see them, 
they are so close. How I should like to join them !” 


94 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


“ Then jine ’em,” exclaims Uncle Billy. “I’ll loan 
you a rifle.” He disappears, and soon returns with 
the old reliable rifle that always hangs, when not in 
use, above the east sitting-room door. A moment yet 
the major hesitates. 

“ This mountain air brings back a fellow’s youth,” 
he says, as he hesitatingly fingers the old gun of the 
mountaineer’s. 

Just at this moment there is a loud halloo from the 
hunters; again the swift, excited hounds are barking; 
the sound comes nearer and grows more deafening ; the 
clan appears a moment later in a moonlit clearing 
within a hundred yards of where we are sitting. Fox, 
hounds, and hunters rush frantically by, and when next 
they disappear the major is among them. 

“ Backward, turn backward, 0 Time, in your flight 
Make me a child again just for to-night !” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITH’S. 


“ Silent now is the wild and lonely glen, 

Where the bright, glad laugh will echo ne’er again j 

Only dreaming of days gone by ; in my heart I hear 

Loving voices of old companions stealing through the past once more. 

And the sound of the dear old music, soft and sweet as in days of yore.” 

The early dinner is over, and the few guests who 
have not “ rolled in” for an afternoon nap are gathered 
as usual upon the veranda. The doctor, poor fellow, is 
confined to his room. Mrs. Crawford is growing lazy. 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 95 

Lincoln declares, as she takes on more flesh ; she has 
almost entirely left off joining us in our strolls. 

The maid of the Mother Hubbard and the mild-eyed 
young lady always nap in the afternoon. We have 
planned a visit to the ruins of Beckwith Springs, the 
famous old stage-stand, and an ante-helium watering- 
place. Our party is small, and, moreover, we And our- 
selves without that necessary evil, a chaperon. We 
have arranged to coax Mrs. Crawford into service. 

We- find her sitting in a low rocker just outside her 
door, a target for the delightful breeze that plays 
wantonly through the upper hall. It seems a pity 
to disturb her, — pull her out from her comfortable 
chair for a warm walk through sedge-fields and laurel- 
thickets. 

Blanche very timidly makes her request ; the little 
woman opens her eyes in amazement. 

“ You certainly will not think of walking two miles 
at one o’clock on a day hot enough to melt one in the 
shade? You will be tanned and freckled and sun- 
burned beyond recognition.” 

‘‘ Oh, who cares for sunburn ?” cries Blanche. “ It 
will wear off; buttermilk will remedy the freckles, and 
there is not wind enough stirring to tan a moss-rose. 
Mr. Courtney and Major Crawford have engaged Uncle 
Billy and the hounds, and we are going to start a fox. 
Lincoln goes in the interest of science ; Hell and I are 
going along for luck ; we only need you now to give 
dignity and tone to the party.” 

“Hot I,” she declares. “The tramp to the haunted 
house and the jostle to High Kock quite satisfied me 
for a while. You must look elsewhere for dignity and 
tone, my dear.” 

Blanche looks distressed. 


96 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ Nell, would it do to go alone V she asks. “ It is 
among ourselves, you know.” 

I “Are you-uns fursak’n in yer min’?” I reply. 
“Surely you cannot be so ignorant of the unchange- 
able and inflexible rules and regulations of fashion- 
able watering-places. We should be immediately pro- 
nounced loud and bold ; we would be frowned upon 
at tea, looked upon with suspicion at breakfast, po- 
litely avoided at din'ner, cruelly snubbed in the even- 
ing, entirely ignored the next day, then emphatically 
dropped. A chaperon, dear; one licensed to boss, to 
bother, and to tell tales, — a woman who has had at least 
one husband, whether she left, loved, or murdered 
him ; so reads the law. A chaperon ; don’t say I told 
you, but nine times out of ten it is the chaperon who 
needs watching.” 

“ But where,” she insists, “ can be the impropriety 
of a walk through the woods with old Uncle Billy, with 
Major Crawford, and your brother?” 

“ Where would be the impropriety of a ramble with 
Moses and Elijah?” I retort. “Yet the law prohibits 
it. Indeed, should the translated prophet come this 
way in his fiery chariot and ofPer us passage to Para- 
dise free of charge, it would be madness to accept the 
seat without a chaperon. Why, some of these dear 
old ladies would report a scandal before the chariot had 
cleared the pearly portal.” 

“The Eight Eeverend Brother Crawford! When 
did you take orders ?” asks Lincoln at the other end 
of the hall ; and before I can find an answer Blanche 
has drawn him into our circle and is calling for his 
assistance out of our difficulty. 

“Where is mother?” he asks. “Why does she not 
go?” 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 97 

“ Too tired,” says Mrs. Crawford. 

“ Tell the truth, mother j too fat — too much mountain 
air. W ell, let me see.” He coolly places a cigar between 
his teeth, strikes a match, shielding the flame with his 
hands : the match goes out and he deliberately lights 
another. At this moment Uncle Billy’s horn is heard, 
and Eing, Bell, Eeady, Drum, and Driver, the lean, 
long-eared hounds, respond to the call. 

Blanche seizes his arm. “ Tell us what to do, — 
quick I” 

“Come on; ‘we’ll find a way or make it.’ We are 
Yankees'^ 

“Ho, we are notV' I exclaim ; and before we get further 
in the discussion we are standing with the hunters at 
the little yard-gate below, and Lincoln is saying, — 

“Uncle Billy, do you think Aunt Sally would go 
with us to Beckwith’s ?” 

“ She might ef she wus axed,” is the reply. “ She’s 
got a pow’ful hankerin’ after Beckwith’s, to say nothin’ 
o’ the dogs and gun.” 

What a happy idea ! Away we run to the kitchen, 
where we find Aunt Sally bending over the poplar 
side-table, industriously wiping away the reminders 
of the noon meal with her large 

She pauses in her task as we present our request, 
and resting both hands on the table, still holding to 
the dish-cloth, hears what we have to say. 

“ Go to Beckwith’s ? I don’t keer ef I do,” she says, 
when we have finished ; “ but you’ll have to wait tell I 
slops the sow and pigs an’ empties that plate o’ dinner- 
truck to the chickens, and that pan o’ bones to the 
hound pups, an’ spruce up a bit. Can you wait ?” 

“Wait?” says Lincoln. “We will help you. Give 
me the slop-bucket ; I’ll feed the pigs.” 

E 9 


98 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

He seizes the vessel of cabbage-leaves, dish-water, and 
numerous odds and ends that have been dropped into 
the convenient “ slop-bucket.” 

“ I will attend to the chickens,” offers Blanche, while 
I seize upon the hound pups’ dinner, and Aunt Sally 
goes to “ spruce up.” 

Lincoln is lustily calling “Pig! pig! pig!” Blanche 
is screaming “ Coo-chick ! coo-chick ! coo-chick !” while 
I join in with “Here, pup! here, pup! here, pup!” 

Grunting, cackling, and barking, pigs, chickens, and 
dogs make their responses, numerous and clamorous as 
candidates at a Democratic convention. Then above 
the racket Uncle Billy’s horn is sounding, and wo 
hasten to join the party to Beckwith’s. 

Uncle Billy takes the lead, his gun upon his shoulder 
and the hounds at his heels. The major has forgotten 
coal, iron, and sheep in the pleasure of the walk. Lin- 
coln carries a red leather note-book, and a pencil of the 
same color is tucked behind his ear. Bob has a gun, 
and impartially divides his attention between it and 
Blanche. 

We cross an open grass meadow and are soon lost in 
a dense laurel-thicket ; the bushes are close and heavy, 
and the branches, tall and strong, winding and circling 
around and into each other, form such a barrier in our 
path that we find it hard work to force a passage. 

At the foot of the laurel-covered slope Lost Creek 
rises from its subterranean channel, and, shadowed by 
the thick, clinging growth, becomes a dark, sullen tor- 
rent that, thundering over a rocky bed, goes hurrying 
down the mountain. 

We cross by means of a fallen poplar which spans 
the bed of the stream, and, emerging upon the other 
side, find ourselves in a wilderness of shade, redolent 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 99 


with fragrance of wild-flowers. We are suddenly trans- 
ported into an alluring Lotus Land ! 

I stop and draw in my breath. 

“ What is it ?” I ask, — “ the delicious perfume ?” 

“ Honeysuckle,” answers Lincoln. 

‘‘ Too late for honeysuckle,” objects Blanche. “Aunt 
Sally, what is that ?” 

She has stopped to pluck a familiar mountain mint 
esteemed for its medicinal qualities, and when Blanche 
calls to her she is in the act of crossing the foot-log. 
The helpful pole by means of which we had crossed is 
upon our bank of the creek, and Lincoln hurries back 
to assist her over. She looks up in surprise at the ex- 
tended hand. 

“ Ho you think I can’t cross this here ?” she asks. 
“Lor, honey, I’ve skipped across weaker logs ’n this 
’fore you was horned. I don’t need no steadyin’, my 
foot’s sho.” 

She has not overestimated her own powers; she 
trips across the shaky old log as graceful and as fear- 
less as a wild doe in her mountain home. When she 
rejoins us, Blanche again puts her question concerning 
the fragrance that fills the forest into which we are 
plunging. 

“ Calecactus,” is the ready reply. “They blooms 
late in the mount’ns.” 

Lincoln opens his note-book with a perplexed ex- 
pression upon his face ; he beckons me to his side as 
Blanche and Aunt Sally disappear in the shadowy 
forest growth. 

“ Will you be so kind as to spell this highly-perfumed 
shrub for me?” he asks. 

“ C-a-l-a-c-a-n-t-h-u-s: that spells it, I believe.” 

“Thank you,” he replies. “How will you be so 


100 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


good as to explain how c-a-l-a-c-a-n-t-h-u-s spells calecac- 
tus?” 

“ No,” I answer. ‘‘ I hear Uncle Billy’s horn ; it 
sounds far away ; I am afraid we shall never catch up. 
Come on ; throw Botany to the dogs.” 

Through the fragrant forest and up the sunny slope 
beyond, until, almost breathless and panting, we pause 
for a moment and drink in the fresh, pure rapture of 
the world around us. At our backs the dark, dim 
forest ; before us the bare sunny slopes, drifting down 
to the lonely gorges, through whose depths the bold 
mountain torrent sweeps noisily onward to swell the 
waters of Lost Creek. 

Farther on we again plunge into a forest ; the tall 
poplar and mountain ash interlace their protecting 
boughs into a canopy, shifting, as the wind rustles 
in their branches, to allow the sunbeams a passage- 
way in their search for the pale, purple phlox that 
is chilled and bleached by the dense shadow of the 
forest. 

“What a glorious world to run to waste !” exclaims 
Blanche, as she fans herself with her hat. “ An Eden 
waiting for a master ;” and after a moment, “ What is 
it you have found. Aunt Sally ?” 

“ A deer-track,” is the reply, and we gather round 
her to examine the trail. 

A long musical call winds through the forest, and 
Aunt Sally springs to her feet. 

“We-uns better be goin’: they’re callin’ us.” And 
we again resume the tramp toward Beckwith’s. 

“How much farther?” asks Lincoln. 

“Better’n a quarter yit. Ye cross the saidge field; 
it wus a orchid once’t, an’ a fine one too, but it’s gone 
to rack like ever’thing else to Beckwith’s. We strike 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWIThrS. 101 

the old Yirginny stage-road forencnst the orchid, an’ 
then we air to Beckwith’s.” 

“ It rather seems to me,” observes Lincoln, as we 
cross the separating ravine and stand knee-deep in the 
tall sedge-grass, “ that this country is progressing back- 
ward. My I my ! what an orchard this has been : you 
cannot see the extent of it; and such trees! some of 
them are bearing yet.” 

“ You’re right ’bout that,” says Aunt Sally. “ Thirty 
year ago this wus the most finest orchid in the mount’n, 
an’ growed the likeliest fruit ; this broom-saidge wus 
meadow-grass, an’ the sheep an’ cattle as useter feed 
here wus a plum caution. Sakes I the land wus fairly 
alive with ’em.” 

“ What became of the cattle in winter?” asks Lin- 
coln. 

“ Same ’s any other time,” she replies. “ We-uns 
have kep’ ourn here thirty year an’ better ; we feeds 
mighty leetle onless there’s a extra cold snap.” 

“What became of your cattle, and what ruined Beck- 
with’s, anyway ?” are Lincoln’s next questions. Aunt 
Sally stops, and looks at him in sheer disgust that he 
should be so ignorant. 

“What broke up an’ frustrated ever’thing down 
here ?” she asks. “ The war, in course. ’Twus a 
Yankee as run this place afore the war; he run the 
orchid, an’ he run the still, an’ he run the ranch, an’ 
he run the school, — ’twas a good ’un, too ; I went to it. 
The school-house sot right down yonder forenenst the 
creek. An’ he run the stage-line, an’ some ’lowed ho 
run the mount’n, an’ at the first toot o’ the war-horn 
he run hisself ; an’ since then Beckwith’s has run to 
rack. We’lL have to climb some here.” 

She places her hands on the top rail of the low 
9 * 


102 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

fence that bars our way and vaults lightly to the other 
side. With more difficulty we essay to follow her 
example. 

“We air in the old stage-road now,” she tells us, — 
“ the old Yirginny stage-road.” 

“ This rock-pile a road?” cries Blanche. 

“ Yes, this wus the road. I useter set right yonder 
on that old red-lookin’ stun an’ watch for the stage. 
Ef it was the down one, I clomb up on the stun an’ 
waved my bunnit to the folks; ef ’twas the up stage, I 
useter foller it an’ see the fine folks light at the hotel. 
Such days, such days as they wus ! but they air gone, 
gone !” 

We trudge along over the rock-terraced, forsaken 
highway. 

“ I can’t see how the stage made it over this. Aunt 
Sally,” says Lincoln. 

“ It done it, anyhow,” she declares. “ An’ no more 
could we see how the stage ware to run on iron rails, 
but they done it ; an’ a sorry day it wus for Beckwith’s 
when they I’arnt to do it, too, — it just cut her neck off. 
I’ve rid over this many a time, — we-uns lived conve- 
nient to the hotel. I useter ride over here by night, 
an’ when the dancin’ was over ride back agin.” 

“Weren’t you afraid ?” asks Lincoln ; and again she 
regards him with disgust. 

“ Afeard ? I ain’t afeard o’ nothin’ in this mount’n, 
from a lizard to a wild-cat. I’ve killed lots o’ deer an’ 
some b’ar meat ; I’ve slept in the woods in a wag’n lots 
o’ times when we wus on a b’ar-hunt, an’ I’ve followed 
the hounds day an’ night, an’ I never was scairt to this 
minute ; but I should feel pow’ful shaky to resk my 
neck on that iron rail that carries the stage. They’ve 
got one down to Sparty now, an’ Simp Lowry fetched 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITH'S, 103 

the word to the mount’n as how the engine ups an’| 
off the rails an’ pitches the whole load o’ passengers! 
into etarnity without so much as a toot o’ the horn! 
to let ’em know the trip’s made. Simp ’lowed he’d like 
some kind o’ warnin’ when Death comes to fetch him, 
if ’twus only the old stage-horn a-blowin’. So when 
he went to git married down to Eock Island, he 
strapped his clean shirt an’ new breeches to his back, 
an’ sot out on the foot line. Yonder’s Beckwith’s.” 

She points toward a long row of crumbling houses 
shielded and shaded by an avenue of gigantic cedars. 
Uncle Billy is standing under the shade, his gun across 
his shoulder, the hounds at his feet \ Bob lies full length 
upon the grass. 

“ How much game do you suppose yon deserter will 
bag this afternoon?” inquires Lincoln of Blanche. 

“ Almost as much as science,” is the reply. 

“ I’ll wager he doesn’t so much as carry home a 
rabbit-skin ‘to wrap the baby buntin’ in,’ ” he laughs, 
and Blanche observes that he is in all probability 
correct in his prophecy, as the young man has surren- 
dered his rifle to Major Crawford. 

“ Trap,” says Lincoln : “ trap his game.” 

“What kind?” 

“ Deer, to be sure and he dodges the handle of her 
parasol and laughs as Eobert rises and comes to meet 
us, saying,— 

“ Be quiet, Courtney ; you will disturb the ghosts of 
the dead hopes of a century.” 

And our mirth does seem strangely out of tune as it 
echoes through the empty room upon whose threshold 
we stand, gazing upon the ruins; the pleasure-haunted 
hall ready to drop from its supports; the old porch 
beneath whose shelter gay and happy throngs were 


104 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


wont to assemble, now hanging like a ruined banner 
and tossed by the unfeeling winds that sweep across 
the Cumberlands. We tij) lightly over the crumbling 
sills, and stand a moment more in the dust-claimed 
office. The walls are festooned with the unmolested 
spider-weavings of twenty years. The brown dust of 
nigh a quarter of a century shuts out and tempers the 
glare from the windows. The black wasp has swung 
her nest under the tall mantel-shelf for two decades. 
To the left of the largo open fireplace a closet, the 
door of which is held by a large wooden button, tells 
where once the popular appetizer was set to mellow ; 
barrels whose bungholes still carry the old corn-cob 
stopper; empty bottles upon the broad shelf above, 
nicely ranged as if waiting the return of the hands 
that placed them there. It might have been but yes- 
terday the deserters fled, — but yesterday that spell 
fell upon the Sleeping Palace. The towel-roller, long 
since wearied with waiting for the maid whose business 
it was to bring the linen, dropped from its place, now 
lies under the once pretty, painted sink. 

Beyond the office the long, sunny dining-room affords 
comfortable lodging for the lizard, the spider, and the 
bat. 

“ I’ve saw it chuck full o’ folks many a time,” says 
Aunt Sally. “ The long table wus there an’ the short 
one wus yonder ; the rich folks took the short one 
’cause ’twus out o’ the crowd, an’ got the breeze. I 
mind how it useter come in that south winder an’ lift 
the lace curtains plum to the jice.” 

Lace curtains ? Can it be they hung in these crum- 
bling frames ? 

“ Step lightly,” warns Bob as we turn to leave the 
room ; but the admonition comes a moment too late : 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 105 


the doorstep yields to Blanche’s light tread, and she 
has only time to bound through the pass-way as the 
entire framework falls with a crash. 

“ Stay where you are until the loose timbers have 
ceased falling,” calls the major, who, attracted by the 
noise, hastens from some distant part of the building. 

We huddle together in the farthest corner, afraid to 
stir lest we shall bring down the ruin upon our heads. 
Our imprisonment, however, is brief ; Eobert tips cau- 
tiously to the door-way, and pulls away the swaying 
pieces ; a large bat drops at his feet, flutters its unsightly 
wings a moment, and disappears through a hole in the 
rotted floor. 

“Did you see the monster?” cries Lincoln. 

“ Yes,” I reply, “ and it made me shiver, and my 
flesh creep.” 

“ ‘Like the odor that steals from a crumbling sheet 
Where a mummy is half-unrolled,’ ” 

quotes Lincoln, in a solemn whisper. 

“ I believe you are losing your mind,” I exclaim. 
“ I am going to leave this vault ; you can stay quoting 
poetry and singing songs to bats and spiders if you 
have a mind to, but you will have to stay alone, — the 
others are gone.” 

“Yes, my last auditor left through a chink in the 
floor. Jump!” he orders, and I obey the command, 
clearing the fallen lumber, the doorstep, and several 
feet of ground beyond, coming against Aunt Sally, 
who is rooting in a bed of wild mustard. 

“ Sakes alive I ef you-uns ain’t mashed my corn flat- 
ter’n a flounder,” she exclaims, as I make my landing ; 
and then seizing the wounded pet between her j)alms, 


106 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

she sits rocking to and fro and lamenting the day that 
big toes ever sprouted a corn. 

I offer my apology as gracefully as possible, and after 
a short time the pain has sufficiently eased to allow her 
to continue to act as guide. 

“Let’s peep into the parlor now,” she suggests; “it’s 
on yon side. But Lor’, hit ain’t nuthin’ like it onct 
wus ; it air all dust an’ dead-like.” 

She pushed open the door that had for years opened 
and shut in obedience to the wailing winds which 
sweep over the mountain. What matter if the hinges 
do creak and groan day and night? There is now no 
fretful invalid to be kept awake and to grumble at the 
noise. What matter if it bang with reverberating 
terror in the ghostly midnight ? There is no sick babe 
to be disturbed and to fret itself into a fever. What 
matter, indeed, if it swing open on its broken hinge 
all the winter round and summer through ? There is 
no emaciated consumptive shivering over the great 
fireplace, whom the winter winds can chill, — there is no 
belle with delicate complexion moving out of reach of 
the long, slant sunbeams. A deal table and an old 
wooden bench are the only signs of habitation the place 
holds. It is indeed, as Aunt Sally says, “all dust and 
dead-like.” Alas ! prosperity is so transient. 

“ The piany sat there,” informs Aunt Sally, “ an’ they 
danced in this very room. My ! how fine the folks wus 
in them days, — an’ how fine Beckwith’s wus! My! my!” 

As she stands holding her blue-checked bonnet in her 
hand, thinking upon and lamenting the lost glory of 
her girlhood’s recollections, a sigh escapes her lips. It 
is a pathetic picture: the little old woman, standing 
amid the ruins of her memories, her heart still young 
and strong and tender. 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITH'S. 107 

‘‘ It was right here I had my first beau,” she says. 
“ His room is right over our heads ; the steps to it air 
rotted down long ago, but I hev clomb up ther fifty 
times an’ better afore they fell. His name’s on the 
winder right now, — ‘Tom,’ — writ with a dimont; I 
hev saw it a sight o’ times since he put it ther. He 
WU8 a likely chap from Mississippy, ez came here fur a 
mis’ry in his back. He ’lowed to me afore he went 
away ez the mis’ry had left his back an’ gone to his 
heart.” 

She laughs in a happy, pleased way, as she recalls 
the bygone courtship, and continues : 

“ I wonder if he hev got strong an’ ’clar o’ the mis’ry 
yit? he wus a orphint.” 

Poor Aunt Sally! She forgets thirty years have 
rolled their weight between her and Tom. Thirty 
years count something in the record of life, reckon it 
by tears or smiles. 

“ Winter times,” Aunt Sally Continues, “ we useter 
have pertater roasts. This old fireplace would roast 
mighty nigh a bushel at onct, and the boys sot roun’ 
on benches an’ peeled ’em for the girls, or held ’em to 
cool while we wus dancin’ ; ef we laid ’em down some- 
body alius took ’em. An’ we’d play ‘Eoun’ an’ roun’ 
the gooseberry-bush’ when we got tired dancin’ or sot 
roun’ an’ et our pertaters. My! my! but them wus 
good times — ’til the railroad come.” 

Poor Beckwith’s ! It would have been a charity to 
serve it as its lovers served Bon Air, — light it with the 
kindly torch. 

“ Were it mine I would close the shutters, 

Like lids when the life is fled, 

And the funeral fires should wind it, 

This corpse of a home that is dead.” 


108 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

Blanche and Bob have gone to find the great spring 
beyond the garden. Uncle Billy and the major leave 
us in the hope of starting a fox. Lincoln and 1 follow 
Aunt Sally to the grove of spruce pines and arbor-vitae 
that once marked the neighborhood graveyard. The 
spruce has grown to great shade-trees, and even the 
tender arbor-vitse has become a strong, coarse growth. 
A mass of myrtle covers the damp, shaded soil. Euined 
frames that once supported a burden of fragrance are 
scattered here and there, while the white and the 
yellow jasmine trails its wasted sweetness upon the 
ground; red, white, and purple lilies blossom, year 
after year, upon the desolate height unnoticed, un- 
tended, uncared for, only keeping alive the memory 
of those who planted them. 

“ This wus the fiower-garden,” explains Aunt Sally. 
“I wonder what become o’ all the snowball-bushes? 
Yonder was the vegetable garden. Wa’al, sir, ef thar 
ain’t the ras’berries still a-growin’ alongside the fence. 
Thar wus bushels on ’em, red and pink ones; tame ones 
in the garden, and bushels ’pun top o’ bushels o’ wil’ 
ones in the fields. This wus another orchid,” as wo 
cross into a sedge-field. “Here’s plums, blue damsel 
plums, peaches, cherries, grapes, berries, and apples, 
more’n yer could shake a stick at. The orchid retched 
clar ter yon pine-thicket. I tell yer thar wus a sight 
o’ fruit raised on it in this mount’n, a powerful sight. 
The folks what come by the stage — an’ thar wus a power 
of ’em — ’lowed they never seed sich a fruit country; but 
Lor’, ’twus jest ez good fur cattle. Yonder’s the spring: 
the house air gone, but the water ain’t ; an’ there be 
the folks a-waitin’ us.” 

The spring, a powerful stream of water, bubbles up, 
clear and deep, in a natural basin of rock. It is 


THE OLD STAOE-STAND—BECKWITHS. 109 

sheltered by no cover of any kind, for, as Aunt Sally 
said, the house has long since fallen away. The only 
shelter now is a dogwood, a maple, a black gum, a pine, 
and a wild-cherry tree, which give variety, a cool 
shade, and a touch of romance to the spot. For years 
the white blossoms of the dogwood have drifted like 
snowflakes upon the lucent water^ then the red berries 
have been reflected on the bosom of the stream ; the 
maple-buds and the blue berries of the black gum have 
come and gone with the cherry blooms, and the purple 
grapes have hung for years ungathered, their truant 
tendrils fastening themselves around every tree, uniting 
them in a pretty artistic fashion, so that the wild bees 
which hang above the blooming arch in honey-time 
scarcely know, as they dip into the delicate corollas, 
whether they are dogwood or maple. 

Under the self-reared arch Eobert and Blanche are 
sitting, she in the careless, artless fashion which is the 
only art she knows, her white muslin dress showing 
cool and fresh under the green boughs. Her hat lies 
at her feet, and she is busy grouping the lilac-hued wild- 
flowers she had gathered along the bank of the stream. 
A rift of sunshine falling across her hair brings out the 
golden tints in full perfection. 

Eobert is stretched upon the grass, twirling a slender 
poplar stick and admiring the pretty picture before 
him. As we draw near Blanche is saying, — 

“ My father stopped here many times in the old 
stage days ; I should like to know if he ever drank of 
this spring. I have heard him tell so many of his 
adventures along this road that it seems as if I had 
travelled it myself. Hush !” 

The hounds are barking furiously as if in full chase. 
Aunt Sally strains her eyes to catch, if possible, a 
10 


110 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND, 

glimpse of the sport ; Lincoln seizes hold of a bough 
and swings himself into a walnut-tree growing near. 

“ Yonder they go,” he exclaims. “ They have started 
something.” 

“ A fox, I bet,” cries Aunt Sally. 

“Maybe it’s a bear,” I return. 

“ So it may be,” says Lincoln. “ Shall I' help you 
up ? They are positively dangerous.” 

“ Thank you,” I reply. “ I may escape death from 
the bear. I certainly should not there ; I will risk my 
chances on the ground.” 

“Aunt Sally, is there no mineral water at Beck- 
with’s ?” 

“Lots of it down yonder,” pointing toward the 
creek which ran through the thicket at the foot of the 
slope. “ Thar useter be bath-houses along that crick ; 
the string of ’em reached from that yonder persimmon 
tree ter the boss apple-tree over thar ; an’ every evenin 
the gals useter come down ter bathe. They wore gen- 
teel close in them days, — close-fitten and tight-waisted, 
— none o’ yer bag frocks what the young gals hev 
brung ter Clarktown. They ’lows ‘ thar hain’t nobody 
ter see ’em nohow, an’ so it don’t make no difference,’ 
— ez if it wusn’t nuthin’ ter be decent fur sake of 
decency itself.” 

Aunt Sally sits upon a large stone which projects to 
one side of the spring. Her striped blue calico dress, 
with the plain white domestic ruffle at the throat, neat 
and well-fitting to the short, fat figure, shows the 
wearer has either profited by her experience with city 
folks or else she has always been of the better class of 
mountain people. Her movements are graceful, except 
that her walk is a trifle too masculine j this is probably 
due to the fact that she has kept company with Uncle 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITH'S. HI 

Billy, following in the chase, helping in the wood-cut- 
ting and hauling, until unconsciously she has caught 
his ways. 

As she sits upon the rock, one fat chubby hand rest- 
ing upon the gray stone, one foot slightly swinging to 
and fro, she presents a strange mixture of child and 
woman, — a woman in years, with a child’s heart beat- 
ing in the honest bosom. 

“ Have you-uns got a knife ?” she asks. 

“ Which blade ?” asks Eobert, holding the knife in 
his hand. 

“ The big one,” she replies. “ I’m gwine to git some 
wax.” 

“ Some what ?” asks Eobert, the knife half opened in 
his hand. 

“ Some wax,” she repeats, — “ some pine rosum wax. 
Didn’t you never chaw none ?” 

“ Never,” he answers. 

‘‘ I useter know whar the tree wus,” she continues, 
looking around. “ Lemme see ; it war on yon side the 
crick just over a slippy rock.” 

‘‘May I go?” cries Lincoln, swinging himself down 
from his perch in the black walnut. “ I do like wax, 
especially ‘pine rosum.’ Come, Miss Courtney.” 

He grasps my hand, and there is no alternative left 
me but to follow or be dragged. 

Aunt Sally has evidently forgotten none of her climb- 
ing accomplishments, for w'hile Lincoln is doing his best 
to draw me safely up the “ slippy” rocks which bar the 
path to the wax-tree, she is already collecting the 
sticky, piny substance upon the point of the knife, and 
depositing it upon a chip of the clean bark. 

When at length we reach the tree, Lincoln opens his 
knife and prepares to follow her example, differing from 


112 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

her in that he deposits his “ wax” in his mouth, as the 
proper place for chewing gum. 

“ Sakes alive, child, don’t put the pesky stuff in your 
mouth until you biles it. I ’lowed you ‘ liked wax’ ; 
’pears to me you knows mighty little about it. You 
may git your gums a-runnin’ again, but I misdoubts it.” 

“ This is not the kind grows on my place,” he says, 
closing his knife and vainly endeavoring to free himself 
from the sticky substance. “ Miss Courtney, you were 
wise not to tackle it. Aunt Sally, j^ou may have my 
interest in the wax-tree. Can’t you tell us where we 
can find some geological specimens, or botanical, or 
something unusual in the world of entomology?” 

She pauses in her occupation, and answers, with 
evident hesitation, “Ef you mean herbs, you’ll find 
’em in the damp grounds mostly.” 

And he replies, soberly, “ Thank you, I meant 
herbs.” 

Together we scramble over rock and bush until we 
reach a deep, dangerous-looking ravine, spanned by an 
old poplar-tree. The stinging-holly and prickly-ash 
line the sides of the gorge, while at its base a wild 
mountain torrent fiows, winter and summer. 

While we stand still to admire the wild, picturesque 
loveliness, Lincoln exclaims, — 

“See, Miss Courtney, what a magnificent lizard is 
sunning himself on that old log. Softly : you shall help 
me catch him.” 

“ I should as soon think of assisting you to strangle 
Cerberus,” I scream, getting as far away as possible 
from the horrid blue thread-like monster taking a sun- 
bath on the old gray poplar. 

“ Stay where you are, then, coward ; you need not 
yell so loud and frighten him away,” scolds Lincoln, 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 113 

creeping stealthily toward the unsuspecting victim. 
“ Stay where you are : I will have him in your bonnet 
in five seconds.” 

“Will you?” I reply, as I stoop, gather a stick, and 
hurl it with all my strength against the log. The 
lizard drops upon the other side and disappears ; my 
companion turns to me angrily. 

“ You are a mean, ugly little coward,” he complains ; 
and I retort with equal warmth, — 

“ I shall frighten them off every time ; and if I am 
‘ mean’ you are meaner, you ugly little Yankee.” 

“Hello! what’s up?” cries a voice above us; and, 
looking up, we see the entire party watching us from 
the bluff above. 

“Have you secured a second, Nell ?” calls Bob, while 
the major is shaking with laughter. 

“ Take care, my son,” he says ; “ you may be whipped. 
The war is ended, my children ; you needn’t feel called 
upon to fight it over. We are going home by the old 
stage-road ; if you intend to go with us you had best 
be climbing. Take care. Miss Courtney, that log looks 
unsafe from this side.” 

The warning comes too late ; I am half-way across 
the poplar-tree when the decayed wood begins to snap 
beneath my weight and break away like fungus. I can 
feel the soft, uncertain foothold yielding beneath me, 
while drop ! drop I the farther end of the log is slip- 
ping into the ravine. A half-dozen voices call to me to 
go back, but as I stand perplexed and frightened, Lin- 
coln bounds upon the log and pilots me safely over. 

Then I look up to see him smile and extend his hand, 
and to place my own within it. 

“ The temple of Janus is closed,” he declares, as his 
fingers close over mine. And then we begin the climb 
A 10 * 


114 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

which will bring us to our friends. Once up he turns 
to me, — 

“Say!” 

“ Say yourself,” I reply. 

“ I’ll make a bargain with you.” 

“You are a true Crawford ; let me hear the case be- 
fore I commit myself,” is my answer, and he continues : 

“Well, it seems that we are destined to entertain 
each other on this trip. I will promise to forego all 
lizard propensities if you will agree to ” 

“ Well ?” 

“ To leave off being a coward and try to entertain me.” 

“ Cheap enough,” I reply, and we again shake hands 
and decide to drop our differences in Lost Creek. 

“Whatever goes by that route draps into the 
mount’n's money-bags,” saj’^s Uncle Billy, as we join 
the party on the old Virginia stage-road, that for thirty 
years has not boasted the honor of a stage. Yet, 
standing upon a rise and looking down, we can dis- 
tinctly trace the old route winding in and out among 
the trees and laurel-thickets. Nature has refused to 
disturb it except to carpet it with the falling leaves 
when the autumn winds are astir. Not a tree nor a 
shrub, only the bamboo brier creeping close to earth 
thrusts its tendrils into the deserted old track. 

The bridge which once spanned Lost Creek hangs a 
ruin, from either side the deep, still water. The main 
part has rotted and crumbled, and drifted, with other 
depredations of Lost Creek, into its subterranean home. 
A stout young cedar fills, as foot-log, the place of 
bridge, though the crossers who reap the benefit of 
the convenience are few. Only a hunter now and then, 
or a stranger from a distant settlement in search of 
stray sheep. 


THE OLD STAGE-STAND— BECKWITH^ S. 115 

Eobert and Blanche cross the stream and, finding a 
shady moss bank under the wilderness of pine, stop to 
rest. Aunt Sally and I seat ourselves upon an over- 
hanging rock to watch the red, purple, and yellow lilies 
coquetting with the sunbeams that dimple the breast 
of the water. The major and Uncle Billy, tempted by 
the barking of the hounds, have again left us. 

Lincoln stands upon the foot-log watching the come 
and go of the shadows across Lost Creek. Only the 
lonesome murmur of the water breaks the silence. 
The forsaken old road opens before, broad and lonely. 
Grod was kind to close the gates of Eden when the 
master left it. Paradise forsaken would be Golgotha. 
Turning the pages backward is dull reading in Life’s 
book, when the glamour of hope has faded and the dew 
on the roses is gone ! 

“Hush!” 

Aunt Sally lays her hand upon my arm ; something 
stirs the laurel-bushes, and a wild-cat bounds from its 
covert. We rise simultaneously, while Aunt Sally hal- 
loos for “ Eing,” “ Bell,” and “ Eeady.” But the hunters 
are more than a mile away, and the wild-cat is flying 
down the road like a belated passenger hurrying after 
the departing stage. 

“ Let’s go, after that,” exclaims Aunt Sally. “ I could 
beat that for huntin’ with one eye shet. That cat’s 
made straight for Maple Lake, an’ I knows it.” 

“ Maple Lake ?” we cry in chorus. “ Where is 
Maple Lake ?” 

“ ’Bout a quarter down the road,” she tells us. We 
are all eagerness to know if it be possible to see the 
lake and get home before dark. 

“ Jest on the road,” she informs us, and we hurry on, 
singing, skipping, laughing, waging a hand-to-hand 


116 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

battle with the bamboo which contends boldly for 
samples of our skirts. We reach Maple Lake to find 
the last parting gleams of sunlight lying in a crimson 
glow upon the water. The clear, dark pool is bounded 
almost entirely with a border of young maples, and the 
crimson, white, and purple lilies fringe the inner bank 
with a delicate tri-colored beauty. It is only a minia- 
ture mirror, an unpretentious sheet of water, but it 
has scooped for itself a substantial basin, while the 
thick growth upon its banks affords a covert for the 
fox and coon and wild-cat with which the neighbor- 
hood abounds. 

“ Let’s wait here for the others,” Blanche suggests. 

“ They’ll go t’other way,” says Aunt Sally. “ I ’low 
they’re trackin’ that wild-cat. Precious pretty hunters 
they be, a-sneakin’ after game an’ hit a-suckin’ hits 
paws in Big Lick long ’fore now.” 

“ Well, we will rest at any rate,” says Bob, throwing 
himself full length upon the soft, fresh grass. “ Miss 
McChesney, if I had a boat I would row across the 
lake and bring you a bunch of those purple flags for 
your belt.” 

“ Thank you,” returns Blanche. “ I heartily wish 
you had your boat.” 

“ Let’s make one,” proposes Lincoln. “ A birchen 
boat.” 

“ Lincoln,” says Bob, “ your poetic inclination is con- 
verting our lake into a ‘ Dismal Swamp.’ ” 

“ Nothing was further from my intentions, I assure 
you,” replies Lincoln. “I intend to convert it into 
the fortune-telling Ganges, and set my boat afloat upon 
the prophetic water. Miss Courtney, will you help rig 
her ?” 

“No, I shall rig my own vessel,” I answer. “ Every 


THE OLD STAOE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 117 

one must do his own building, and thereby shoulder the 
responsibility of leaks, etc.” 

“ Why, children,” calls Bob, “ the boats of the Hin- 
doo women were night vessels, and carried perfumed 
lamps.” 

“ That doesn’t alter the luck in the least,” says Lin- 
coln. “We will light our boats with love. Miss Court- 
ney ; I think that will render them light enough.” 

“Yery light indeed, I should imagine,” replies Eob- 
ert. “ Miss McChesney, we will superintend the build- 
ing. What are you doing, JSTell?” 

“Making a sail of my handkerchief,” I reply. “Bob, 
open the small blade of your knife for me. Aunt Sally, 
will you help me tie my mast straight ?” 

“ Too much assistance,” calls Lincoln. “ Aunt Sally, 
I insist you belong to my vessel. Miss Courtney is 
monopolizing.” 

“ I must be a-goin’,” Aunt Sally declares. “ You-uns 
’ll want some supper when you gits home, an’ Billy ’ll 
be mad as tucker ef I ain’t thar by sundown.” 

And so she leaves us, after directing us to the “ nigh 
cut through the saidge-fiel’,” and we set to work with 
our task as if fate really hangs upon the bits of pine 
and whip-cord. 

The sun creeps nearer the western horizon, and the 
crimson glow upon the lake’s bosom creeps closer to 
the eastern bank. A slight breeze springing up tosses 
the leaves of the red lilies, and stirs ripples of the still, 
dark water. 

“ Give us a song to cheer us while we work, Blanche,” 
begs Lincoln ; “ something merry, and mad, and thrill- 
ing.” 

“Ho, no,” Eobert enters his protest, “let it bo some- 
thing soft and plaintive, something about the lakes 


118 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


and lilies, and the moonlight that will soon flood the 
mountain.” 

And while we rig our vessels and hoist the sails and 
add the final touches, Blanche sings to us a tender little 
ballad, snatched from some old magazine and set to her 
own music : 

“ On the lake beyond the meadow. 

Where the lilies blow, 

Where the young moon dipped and lifted 
Her reflected bow, 

Lived and died a dream of beauty, 

Many years ago. 

“ Something made the milk-white lilies 
Even whiter grow. 

Something gave the dying sunset 
An intenser glow. 

And enriched the cup of rapture. 

Filled to overflow. 

“ Hope was frail and passion fleeting, — 

It is often so ; 

Visions born of golden sunsets. 

With the sunsets go. 

To have loved is to have sufiered 
Martyrdom below. 

“ On the lake beyond the meadow, 

Where the lilies blow. 

Oh, the glory there that perished 
Hone shall ever know, — 

When a human heart was broken 
Many years ago.” 

The boats are ready to be launched; we stand at 
the brink of the water, the tiny crafts in our hands. 
The crimson glow has faded from the bosom of the 


THE OLD STAOE-STAND— BECKWITHS. 119 

lake and crept into the maples. The wind tosses the 
dark ripples angrily. 

Lincoln lifts his boat ready for launching. 

“ I shall call her,” he says, “ ‘ The Sunny South.’ ” 

“ And mine shall ‘ go forth’ as ‘The Frozen North,’ ” 
I exclaim, as we stoop side by side to the water’s edge. 

“No, no!” cries Blanche, “do not give them such 
meaningless names.” 

“ Miss Courtney,” says my fellow-boatman, not no- 
ticing the interruption, “ are you ready ?” 

“ Quite ready,” is my answer ; and then — 

“‘Sail forth into the sea, O ship!’” he says, and 
the tiny toys touch the water’s edge ; the breeze 
catches the “ Sunny South,” bearing her bounding an 
arm’s length from shore. 

The “ Frozen North” catches upon a hidden snag, 
tosses, careens to one side, and attempts to steady her- 
self. As we watch her efforts, a stronger gust lifts her 
above the snag which threatens her ruin, and she goes 
dancing on to join the “ Sunny South” in mid-stream, 
where, drifting side by side, the two crafts pass beyond 
the lily-decked bend, and, nodding and bowing as the 
breeze tosses them, pass out of sight. 

“ North and South united,” says Lincoln. 

A single star peeps into the dark water and twinkles 
merrily at the reflection of its own loveliness. 

A frog hidden among the maple growth sounds the 
first note of the evening’s concert. 

Shadows lurk in the woods, and we slowly take our 
way homeward through the twilight. 


120 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTER XL 

FUN IN WILD-CAT COVE. 

“ We’ll gather up the jolliest crew, 

Falstafif, Prince Hal, and Roderick Dhu, 

And all the rantin’ brither Scots 
Frae Maiden Kirk to John O’Groat’s.” 

We are not confined to the hotel and society ; not by 
any means. We have explored old Beckwith’s, fright- 
ened the gray ghosts that haunt its tenantless halls and 
deserted shades \ we have flirted and frolicked away two 
weeks of our stay at Clarktown, the pleasant, unpre- 
tentious little mountain resort. We are again at a 
stand-still; adventure, fun, we wish. There is any 
amount of it in this part of the mountain, and we 
deputize Bob and Lincoln to “norate it round” that 
we are on the hunt for gayety. 

One morning Bob comes to us jubilant, his face all 
aglow with pleasure. 

“ I have found it,” he cries ; “ the very thing.” 

“ Where ? Who ? What ?” we exclaim in a breath ; 
and he answers, — 

“ The fun : lots of it, wholesale, warranted to please, 
without money and without price. There is to be a 
dance to-night in Wild-Cat Cove,— a regular bon ton, 
mountain dance, which we are permitted to attend.” 

“G-ood!” “jolly!” “glorious!” are the several re- 
sponses. 

“ But where is Wild-Cat Cove ?” asks Mrs. Crawford. 

“ Oh, it is not so very distant,” Bob replies. “ The 
frolic begins at four o’clock p.m., and continues until nine 


FUN IN WILD-CAT COVE. 


121 


A.M. the following day. We will not be hurried, to say 
the least, and can take our time in going and coming.” 

“ Stay all night !” cries Blanche. 

“ That’s the style in the mountains,” he answers. 
“We will leave, however, about five; that will give us 
suflScient time. That is, if you care to go?” 

“Go?” we exclaim. Was any prospect ever half so 
glorious? To be sure we “ care to go ;” indeed, we can 
scarcely wait until the time to start, although, through 
force of habit it must be, when the wagon that has been 
engaged draws up before the door we are not ready. 
It is six by Aunt Sally’s little kitchen clock when 
we climb into the “kerridge” and go rumbling and 
tumbling over the rocks and ruts to Wild-Cat Cove. 
We are fortunate in the matter of a driver this time; 
we have secured one of the mountain beaux, — “a 
mount’n bummer” the old hunters call him. He is a 
very young man, and his dress suit is several years 
younger. The narrow pants cling a trifle too closely 
to the spider-like legs for grace and ease ; moreover, 
they are a trifle too short, as if the ruffle had been 
forgotten : however, this defect serves to show off to 
the best advantage the very white store socks and the 
cut of the “store shoes,” whose tops just touch the 
base of the large bone of the slender ankle. The coat 
is aspiring; the waist has climbed half-way to the 
shoulders, and the sleeves are making excellent head- 
way. He wears a white shirt stamped with brown 
dog-heads, and a yellow handkerchief is knotted about 
his neck. He is ready for the dance, — impatient, if 
one may judge from the restless patting of his “ sto’ 
shoes” whenever the animals show signs of lagging. 

“Git up thar, you poky critters!” he exclaims. 
“Don’t yer know we’re gwine to a shindig?” . 

F 11 


I 


122 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

Yet, in spite of the youthful driver’s impatience, in 
spite of the unpoetic sounding locality to which we are 
bound, the ride in the dusk}^, delicious twilight is a re- 
markably pleasant one. It seems more like a dream 
than an actual reality: the crimson twilight, the red 
streaks on the western horizon, the open, fair country, 
and then the stars rising one by one in a darkly blue 
firmament, until the infinite azure is studded with 
gems better than a king’s heritage ; then the lonely 
woods, fragrant with wild lilies and white elder-blooms 
and clusters of crimson azaleas. There is no moon to 
light us on the way, only the myriad stars that are 
doing their utmost to brighten the night. 

As Ave leave the wood and follow the main road, we 
can see the lights from the hunters’ camp flickering 
like a Jack-o’-my-lantern among the dark forests of 
Hickory-nut Mountain. Once a horn sounds Avith a 
faint musical call, and we hear the hounds baying an 
eager response. Then the light ceases to flicker in the 
forest gloom, but burns steadily on, like a star set to 
guard Hickory-nut Mountain ; and Ave know the hunt- 
ers are gone for the chase, because their forms no 
longer pass before the camp-fire. 

And then we leave them, and turn into another 
road ; on through wood and plain, until Ave strike the 
Calf-Killer. The little river, still and rippleless as it 
always is, is literally studded with stars; it looks like 
a cloth of blue satin, set Avith silver sparks, spread for 
the passage of Dian. 

While we wonder at the freshness and beauty, a 
sound of shuffling, busy feet in a jubilant clatter, varied 
now and then by an emphatic “ Avhack” as the climax 
of successful effort is reached, falls upon our ears, 
and we know Ave have reached our destination be- 


FUN IN WILD-CAT COVE. 


123 


fore the excited driver lays his whip to the horses and 
cries, — 

“ They be at it.” 

‘‘At it ? I should say so. At it with a vengeance,” 
says Lincoln. The sound of the music is entirely lost 
in the noise of the feet. The driver has caufjht the 
contagion; his limbs are going like a “ limber jack’s” 
when the string is pulled ; he refuses to allow the tired 
beasts to drink at the little creek, until Eobert reminds 
him there is the entire night for dancing. With an 
impatient “ Darn ’em” he pulls up, and as the thirsty 
creatures drop their heads to the clear murmuring 
water we are surprised to see in the dim light a young 
girl crossing the stream. 

She is barefoot, carrying her shoes in her hand ; at 
our approach she stops midway the stream she is wading 
and gives us a cool stare. The water closes around her 
white ankles in a way that must be delightfully cool and 
refreshing to the weary, dusty feet ; the shadow of her 
form blots out many stars where it falls upon the sur- 
face of the water. A moment, and she passes on, and 
upon the farther bank takes a seat upon the fresh, short 
grass, draws a cloth from one of the shoes, dries her 
feet, and begins to don her shoes and stockings. 

“ Cool, to say the least,” says Bob. And then the 
driver calls to the horses to “ G-it up,” and we stop no 
more until we reach the door of the little hut in which 
are gathered the dancers of Wild-Cat Cove. 

“ Light an’ look at yer saddle,” calls a young man 
from the shadow of the low, drooping porch. “ Light 
an’ look at yer saddle” being a part of the necessary pro- 
gramme of all mountain meetings, as we afterwards learn. 

“Ef yer don’t light yer can’t git thar,” they argue; 
“ an’ ef ye don’t look at yer saddle ye’ll not likely git 


124 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

thar: ef it’s a good ’un, some feller ’ll git thar in yer 
stead an’ leave you his’n.” 

As we are not interested in the saddle regulations, we 
leave our driver to look to the team, and take our way 
timidly into the ball-room. The house is a little, one- 
roomed hut, with the customary shed-room in the rear. 
We stand a moment in the porch looking in on the 
scene open before us : the low, square room is crowded 
with old men, old women, boys and girls ; the bench set 
round the wall for lookers-On is full ; the standing- 
room is taken to the last foot. The fiddler wedges his 
way in and out among the whirligig figures, dexter- 
ously avoiding protruding elbows and reckless heels, 
playing for dear life, — the cracked fiddle fairly groan- 
ing with the terrors of the “ Boiling Biver,” or scream- 
ing the wonderful acts of “ Cotton-eye Joe.” 

While we stand looking on, an old man hobbles .to the 
door and invites us in. The music stops in the very 
height of the time, and fiddler and dancers stop to stare 
at us ; but only a moment : we are no sooner crowded 
into a corner than a stout little man with a paper and 
pencil calls out, — 

“ Three minits yit !” And the music begins again, 
and the dancers fairly fiy, determined to crowd as 
much as possible into the precious three minutes. 

“ Time up 1” cries the same man, and instantly the set 
is at an end. 

This man proves to be the book-keeper, and holds the 
high position of deputy sheriff of the county. The 
dancers are allotted special sets of twenty minutes 
each. Every one knows the number of his set before 
the book-keeper calls it. This, however, applies to the 
gentlemen only ; the girls are chosen, and the same one 
can dance all night if she is asked. 


FUN IN WILD-CAT COVE. 


125 


When the next set is called we notice our young 
driver has taken a place upon the floor, and our inter- 
est centres almost entirely in him. 

Some one calls for “ Crippled Chicken.” Our little 
friend objects. “Give us a lively one, C’lumbus; one 
with some git up to it. Give us Sally Gal.” 

And away goes the Addle, and away go the dancers, 
and away goes our comical little driver. He dances ; 
dances for dear life, dances as if the future of the gov- 
ernment depends on the rapidity with which he lifts 
his lithe young legs. And the flddler, too, grows jubi- 
lant ; every moment the tune quickens in the glories 
of Sally Gal ,* the fiddler himself is dancing in the ex- 
citement, and with every motion of the bow our little 
driver grows more limber, more merry, more deter- 
mined. The tail of his tiny coat, that seems to be all 
tail, flies like the pennant of a war-vessel or the black 
flag of a pirate ship. Fiddle, fiddler, coat and dancer 
have all gone mad,— mad with the mirth, and mad 
with the thrilling wonders of Sally Gal. The girls are 
not behind in the art of dancing; the boys, for the 
most part, dance with their feet, lifting them, high and 
putting them down with a will, dancing upon their 
toes until the time to swing their partners, then 
coming down flat-footed with a tremendous stamp, 
followed by a swift whirl as the couples swing, and 
pass on to the next. The girls dance with their elbows 
and shoulders quite as much as with their feet: the 
left shoulder is dropped, the right lifted, the arm is 
bent into a right angle, and the elbow elevated as near 
as possible to a line with the right ear ; and then the 
fair one sidles up to her partner like a young pullet 
trying to pick a fuss with a tall Shanghai rooster. 

While the dance goes on, the waiting ones hang im- 
11 * 


126 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

patiently about the little clock on the tall shelf above 
the great black open fireplace. 

As the second set draws to a close, Lincoln saj^s to 
Bob, — 

“ I am ‘ gwine to jine the ban’.’ ” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean to dance,” is the reply. “ I am in E-ome.” 
The next moment he is engaged with the book-keeper, 
and when the next set is called he steps out upon the 
floor with the young girl we passed while crossing the 
creek. 

“ Such impudence !” says Blanche. “ liTot so much as 
an introduction.” 

“ That is style up here,” Bob tells her ; “ these people 
would hardly understand what an introduction means. 
I believe the dance is changed.” 

Yes, they are resting themselves and the fiddler 
with “ Weevily Wheat.” The girls form in a line op- 
posite the line of gentlemen, and the song begins as 
the end couple chassez down the line : 

“ Weevily wheat ain’t fit to eat, 

Neither is yer barley ; 

But I’ll take some fiour, an’ half an hour. 

Ter make er cake fur Charlie. 

“ Oh, Charlie is er nice young man, 

Charlie is er dandy ; 

Charlie is the very lad 

That e’t up all the candy.” 

Over and over again the song; each one singing, 
and, when not dancing, keeping time with feet and 
hands and body ; each bent upon the performance ; no 
one talking, all busy with the dance. Once only, when 
our little driver succeeds in going down the line back- 


FUN JN WILD-CAT COVE. 


127 


ward, some one declares that to be “fust-rate back 
steppin’,” the back step being considered quite an 
accomplishment. 

The reel finished, the “square” is again called for. 
The good people evidently think we are being slighted ; 
the stout little book-keeper crosses the floor, and tip- 
toeing, whispers something in the ear of a tall young 
mountaineer. The young man immediately starts for 
our corner, hesitates half a moment, and then says to 
me, — 

“ Will you-uns dance this set along o’ me ?” 

The unexpected request finds me without an excuse. 

“ I am sorry,” I declare, “ but I do not understand 
your dance.” 

“ I’ll larn you,” he says, fully confident of his own 
superior knowledge. 

“But I have — a weak ankle.” I can think of no 
more appropriate afiliction. 

“We’ll go slow,” he says ; and then, as I still hesitate, — 

“ Mebbe ef ye’ll take a mouthful o’ supper ye’d feel 
helped some. Hev ye been ter supper?” 

I reluctantl}’" admit that I have not, and he offers his 
company to the feast. Through the door leading into 
the little shed-room the dancers have been coming and 
going all evening ; at the moment the young man is 
speaking Lincoln is going in with the young mountain 
girl. He is having a good time; why should not I 
enjoy the occasion to the same extent ? 

The mountaineer holds out his hand, a great, hard, 
brown palm. I place my own in it, and he leads me 
in to suj^per. 

And oh, such a supper ! There are batter-cakes, corn 
bread, ham, chicken, cold peas, pies, sweetcakes, coffee 
and cider, and something they tell me is “ muley cow’s 


128 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


milk.” It is well sweetened, and highly flavored with 
something a trifle stronger than the cider, and by far 
the most popular dish on the table. 

After supper we return to the “ big room,” where 
the dancers are again resting on “ Weevily Wheat.” 
The fiddler takes advantage of the respite to “ spruce 
up a bit :” he stands before the little black-framed mir- 
ror, carefully turning the part in his very black hair, 
his attention being about evenly divided between his 
toilet and the dance. Whenever the singers drag and 
the song threatens to flag, he joins in with a loud en- 
couraging voice as he flourishes the brown horn comb : 

“ Charlie is er nice young man, 

Charlie is a dandy ; 

Charlie is the very lad 

That e’t up all the candy.” 

Then another turn at the part, and “Weevily 
Wheat” is ended. A young girl comes in at this period 
of the merry-making, and begins a furious process of 
sweeping the floor, which by this time is inch thick 
with dust. We are instantly threatened with strangu- 
lation ; some one interferes, however, and she makes 
the doubtful exchange of the broom for a water-bucket. 
Dipping her hand into it, she begins to spatter and 
flourish the water in a miniature flood upon the floor, 
which under her brisk treatment soon presents the 
appearance of having had a more vigorous shower- 
bath than is conducive to comfort. 

“This air our set,” says my partner, and we step 
into the flood. 

It is my first country dance, and the novelty lends 
special zest to the pleasure. My partner carefully 
hands me through the figures, never dropping my hand 


FUN IN WILD-CAT COVE. 


129 


unless the figure positively requires it ; holding on as 
if he feared I should be lost in the crowd, and keeping 
time between the figures as our arms swing to and fro 
with the music. The fiddler has received fresh in- 
spiration ; he walks up and down and around among 
the couples, sometimes dropping his chin upon the 
instrument, sometimes throwing his head with a know- 
ing toss to one side, and singing, — 

“ Oh, it’s mighty hard ter love, 

Yes indeed it is ; 

An’ it’s mighty hard ter make up yer min’. 

Yer done went an’ busted one feller’s heart, 

But yer ain’t gwine ter busted mine.” 

As the book-keeper calls the time, my partner doubt- 
fully observes, — 

“ Ye gits along mighty well fur a beginner.” 

“ I have a good teacher,” is my reply ; and he receives 
the compliment with the modest declaration of, — 
That’s so, shore.” 

At two o’clock the revel is at its highest. I suggest 
to Bob that we go home. 

“ It is dark as Egypt,” he replies, “ and Hercules him- 
self could not tear our driver away yet.” 

At three o’clock I am decidedly sleepy. 

“Air you-uns pooly?” asks the solicitous hostess. 
And finding I am in my usual health, she declares I 
look “ weakly,” and offers to furnish me with a strength- 
ener from the “ safe” in the shed-room. 

The friendly woman then gives me an account of the 
dance. “ The church members ’lows I oughter not ter 
’low it to my house ; an’ I wouldn’t, only it brings a 
dollar er head, an’ I be a poor widder woman. ’Tain’t 
the dancin’ as I cares fur, — I’m down on dancin’ ; I’d 


130 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

ruther go to meetin’ as to a party, — but it’s the money 
I wants. A dollar a head 1” She pushes the tobacco 
into the bowl of her pipe with her long finger while 
she calculates the profits of the night’s frolic. 

Oh, mammon ! mammon ! who would think to find 
you in the wilderness I 

While I sit listening to the woman’s argument and 
defence of her course, a young man comes to me, snaps 
his finger in my face, and runs ; a sort of challenge, I 
suppose, which is hailed with a loud burst of applause. 

“He means to snap ye,” explains the hostess, 
noticing my astonishment. 

“Why does he snap me?” I ask, and am laughed at 
for my ignorance. 

“ He snaps ye to kiss ye ; ye hev to cetch him, tho’, 
before ye gits the kiss.” 

And then I observe for the first time that the dancers 
are again resting themselves with a game of “Snap.” 
A lady and a gentleman are standing in the centre of 
the room ; the gentleman holds the girl’s hands, and 
together they form a centre, around which another 
young man is chasing a pretty girl. When she is 
caught, as she is sure to be, she pays the forfeit of a 
kiss and goes to relieve the lady who is acting as 
centre. The gentleman then “snaps” some other girl, 
and there is another race and another kiss, and the 
gentleman goes to the centre. 

The pretty little mountain maids always draw back 
and timidly resist the payment of the forfeit ; but they 
are careful to keep their faces up and their lips con- 
venient. It is expected a girl shall resist, but she must 
not dare to refuse ; in case she does so once, she is never 
“snapped” again. 

While I am studying the run of the game, the deter- 


FUN IN WILD-CAT COVE. 


131 


mined mountaineer is persistently “snapping” me and 
running, while the lookers-on enjoy the fun. 

The fourth time he comes, he stops in front of me, 
holds his thumb a moment against his second finger, 
and makes a frightful threat : 

“Ef ye don’t come next snap. I’ll kiss ye anyhow.” 

And the snapping sounds ominously loud and emphatic. 

Lincoln, however, plunges into the game with his 
usual freedom, and is soon doing a wholesale kissing 
business. Loud and hearty the smacks resound as one 
by one the girls are caught. 

Poor Bob ! poor old prosy, honest brother ; a pretty 
little girl runs up to him, snaps her fingers temptingly 
close to his brown moustache, and together they go, 
snapper and snapped, flying around the centre figures 
until Bob holds his captive in his arms. She covers 
her face with her hands, while he, the captor, coolly 
walks off and leaves her standing there under the 
delusion that he is waiting to claim his kiss. 

There is indignation among the fair sex when it 
is understood Bob only intended to catch her, and, 
moreover, does not approve of promiscuous kissing. 
Bob is, as he deserves to be, a wall-flower after that. 

But then Lincoln is doing duty for the crowd. 
Once, seeing how enthusiastically he takes to the 
game, a knowing looker-on, an experienced old moun- 
taineer, sitting on the bench with me, his fingers 
tightly locked about his knees, draws them up to his 
breast, rests his chin upon them, and slyly observes, — 

“ Kiss whin ye can, 

Ef ye’re a man ; 

Kiss with an’ kiss without warnin'. 

Kiss Mollie an’ Sal, or any other gal, 

But think o’ ycr head in the mornin’.” 


132 THE SUNNV SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


And so the game proceeds until a faint gray glimmer 
trembles in the east, and grows into a silvery bay across 
the horizon. 

We say good-night, or rather good-morning, to our 
hostess, who loudly laments our early departure. As 
we drive off, the sound of music tells us the fiddle has 
been resumed. 

The gray shimmer spreads in the east ; a rosy blush 
creeps in its wake. Aurora is trailing her violet robe 
across the heavens, while her brother’s fiery chariot fol- 
lows her over the eastern mountains. The silence of 
midnight still broods upon the world ; it is still shadowy 
in the lonesome coves, and the dense woods are dark 
yet with the night ; but eastward the red light trembles 
and glows and breathes a new day upon the majestic 
summit of the mountains. 


CHAPTEK XII. 

AT DOE CREEK. 

“ Of all the beautiful pictures 
That hang on memory’s wall, 

That one of a dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all.” 

‘^All aboard for Doe Creek Falls!” The wagon 
stands waiting at the door, and as Lincoln springs 
from his place beside the driver and makes this an- 
nouncement, we hastily don our sun-hats and heavy 
gloves and climb into the capacious old vehicle, a round 


AT DOE CREEK. 


133 


baker’s dozen en route for the finest bit of scenery to 
be found on this spur of the mountain, — Doe Creek 
Falls. 

The time of our departure is not far otf, and yet we 
have not seen the curiosity of this section, the “ Gulf,” 
as the mountain people call the great gulch of the 
Caney Fork, nor the “High Eock,” nor the “Natural 
Bridge over Cliftie.” We have not half done Clark- 
town, but the major’s dyspepsia is better, and, after 
carefully calculating the cost of a coal-bank set off by 
the expense of digging, hauling, shipping, and deliver- 
ing, he decides — with the pros and cons before him — 
that it will be “ a venturesome venture,” and that it 
requires sleeping upon. So we are to “ move on,” on 
to somewhere, none of us know just where yet. We 
are determined to see Doe Creek, at any rate, and, if 
possible, the “ Gulf” where the mountain boys kill 
the “ bars” that make their dens in this wild, almost 
inaccessible place. It is the “ bar deestrict,” and few 
care to dispute the claims of the land-holders in that 
section. 

There is but one drawback to our pleasure this 
sunny morning when we are starting for Doe Creek ; 
Aunt Sally cannot go. 

“ It air bakin’ day,” she says, “ an’ I have Sunday’s 
bread in the pans under the stove ; ef I leaves it them 
gals ’ll bake it afore it’s riz enough, an’ hop yeast air 
gittin’ sca’ce. Ef it wus salt-risin’ I wouldn’t set so 
much sto’ by it \ but it’s hop, an’ thar ain’t more’n half 
a dozen cakes in the cubby, an’ the summer not set in 
good yit.” The anticipated pleasure is powerless to 
silence the claims of the “ hop yeast,” and so we leave 
her, standing in the kitchen -door, wiping the perspira- 
tion from her face with her clean checked apron. 

12 


134 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

Uncle Billy, also, refuses to accompany us, giving as 
excuse that there is a mutton to be slaughtered “ gin’ 
Sunday,” so he ‘‘guesses he’ll stay along with Sally.” 

“How far is it. Uncle Billy?” asks Eobert, climbing 
into the wagon. 

“ Three miles an’ a half precise, fur I hev stepped it 
/ a hund’ed times,” he answers. 

“ Stepped it !” says Eobert. 

“ Yes, stepped it. It air seventeen hund’ed an’ forty- 
fo’ feet to a mile, an’ that road lays off three seventeen 
hundred and forty-fours an’ a half over. Ef yer don’t 
believe it, try it.” 

“ Excuse me, I will take your word for it. All right, 
Hamp, go ahead. Good-by, major; you’d better go 
with us.” 

This to Major Crawford, who has declined going 
“ because,” he says, “ Cloe does not care to go.” But 
Mrs. Crawford seems to understand the major’s in- 
difference to Hoe Creek: he has something else in 
view. 

What a glorious day it is, and what a ride we are 
having! One moment flying along the glistening sandy 
road, the next disappearing in a pine-thicket to emerge 
in a flower-scented wood ; then out and across a bold 
bare sedge-fleld at the mercy of the wind, which is never 
still upon the mountains. 

“ Isn’t it splendid ! So refresh ” 

A gust of wind lifts the little lady’s hat, and at the 
same time cuts short her rhapsodies. The hat goes 
dancing down the road like an escaped prisoner, with 
the entire male force in hot pursuit ; it is captured and 
restored, minus shape and feather, but richer in color 
and weight. 

“ How strong the wind is !” says a delicate lady in 


AT DOE CREEK. 135 

blue mull. Women are consistent creatures even in 
matters of fashion. 

“ It is a south wind,” observes Blanche. 

“ Yes,” agrees Lincoln, “ it is a south wind, but, as 
Aunt Sally would say, ‘ it has a northern principle.’ ” 

We all laugh at Aunt Sally’s wit, and Eobert tells a 
joke on Uncle Billy: 

“ Uncle Billy declares he has sat in his room at thei 
empty hotel winter nights, and heard the wind howly 
ing around the house until he could understand wha^ 
it said. Whenever he goes out for wood or coal in bad 
weather, the wind just comes around the house and 
screams in his ear, ‘ What have you done with your 
last summer’s wa-g-e-s ?’ Dr. Eeed, lower your head ; 
your hat is in danger.” 

The doctor obeys at once, bowing almost to the lap 
of the lady opposite. Everybody laughs at the joke, 
while the doctor looks with anxiety for the limb which 
endangered his hat ; the limb which never came. 

“ There is a rhododendron in bloom,” cries Blanche. 
“ Oh, driver, do let us stop to get it ; it is so late for 
them, and they are so lovely.” 

The rhododendron-bush is soon stripped of its few 
remaining blooms. 

Blanche has not once spoken to Dr. Eeed since we 
left the hotel, but, somehow, in the confusion of re-en- 
tering the wagon, places are changed, and she is seated 
next to him. As the driver cracks his whip and the 
noise of starting grows louder, the doctor bends his 
handsome head and says, softly, — 

“ Miss McChesney, may I have one blossom ?” 

For answer she lifts her matchless eyes to his, and 
smilingly drops the fairest bunch of the pink blossoms 
into his hand. 


136 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

Once, while their heads — one black as night, the other 
fair and sunny — are bowed together, I glance toward 
Robert ; but he is pointing out a distant view to the 
lady near him, and does not appear to notice them. 
The wagon begins to move more slowly, until finally 
we leave the road and turn into the dim, pathless wood. 
The animal’s feet crush the tangled undergrowth, while 
we all bow our heads to escape the overhanging limbs. 

“ A song !” cries a reckless young man. 

“ The one who attempts it is a dead man,” warns 
Lincoln, snapping the twigs which are daringly tapping 
him across the lips. 

“ This is horrid,” complains Blanche, as the brush 
and growth thicken. “Where will it end, I wonder? 
This looks like the verge of the mount. Oh, look! 
isn’t it grand ? — glorious ?” 

Involuntarily she rises to her feet, steadying herself 
by placing her hand upon Dr. Reed’s arm. He blushes, 
and a pleased smile shows beneath his moustache at 
the implied confidence ; but she, wholly unconscious, is 
looking far beyond him, calm and indifferent save for 
the rapture at her heart, thrilling with the unexpected 
vision of the grand creation spread out before us. 

The wagon draws up to the very edge of the preci- 
pice, and for a moment we are spell-bound and silent. 
On either hand rise the great spurs of the Cumber- 
lands, sloping and gradually crossing, as it seems, or 
intersecting each other, forming a kind of triangle, the 
bluff upon which we stand being the base. Far to the 
westward rises the purple slant of Sugar-Tree Ridge ; 
behind it a higher and fainter rim is plainly discernible, 
while a faint, far-off, vapory line, still higher, forms the 
last stepping-stone to cloudland. 

In the midst of the majestic enclosure, full five him- 


AT DOE CREEK. 


137 


dred feet below, lies the modest cove in the embrace 
of the mountains. What unexpected upheaval of the 
hot, angry earth had piled these petrosal pillows and 
scooped this yawning chasm only the winds and the 
echoes can remember. To our right the nearer spur 
appears, dark and heavy with timber ; upon the very 
summit of the rocks, rooted in a bed of sandstone, the 
tall swaying pines have planted a foothold between 
the two spurs, one a purple dreaminess, the other a grim 
verdure-crowned reality. Just where the narrow points 
seem to pass, an opening like the parting of curtains 
discloses a panorama of the warm fields of the valley- 
lands. 

“ Ef yer had a glass yer could see the niggers a-dan- 
cin’ in Africy,” ventures Hamp, whose soul is either 
too dull to catch the thrills of nature, or whose unedu- 
cated eye sees only rocks and trees and clouds. 

“ Where are the falls ?” asks Blanche, leaning over 
the blutf to peep into the distant cove. 

“ One step nearer that edge and you will be thor- 
oughly satisfied on the ‘ fall’ question,” remonstrates 
Lincoln. 

“ On the contrary, I should be greatly dissatisfied, if 
you intend to say I shall go over this bluff,” is the ready 
rejoinder. 

“ Don’t suggest such a dreadful downfall^ Miss Mc- 
Chesney, I pray you,” exclaims Dr. Eeed. 

Lincoln laughs, and holds out his hand. “ ‘ You, too, 
Brutus,’ ” he cries ; “ that was a good one. You should 
emigrate North and seek a situation as punster for Puck, 
or getter-up of smart sayings for some wholesale wit 
establishment. Hello! where are they going?” 

The company has separated ; some still studying the 
first view upon which the shifting sunbeams, as the day 
12 * 


138 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND, 


moves on, throw numberless and constant changes, 
for the sun is an artist-king, and no pictures equal his. 
At one moment the sassafras- and sumach-bushes are 
only wild mountain weeds through which the wind fit- 
fully and carelessly moves ; at another, the sleek, slen- 
der sassafras glows like silver, and the azalea shakes its 
red blossoms, each a globe of fire ; and, hidden by the 
interlacing holly and laurel, about half a dozen of the 
party are picking ferns so close to the rocky edge that 
the white fingers of some daring adventurers can be 
seen, now and then, rifling the green beds of the deli- 
cate “maiden -hair” which clings to the damp, mossy 
rocks. Farther off, Robert is gathering mountain 
daisies for a girl whose white dress shows conspicuous 
through the green- elder-bushes. He may be happy 
enough as he carelessly tosses these treasures into the 
extended hat, — he must be happy, and it is only my 
foolish fancy that supposes he is thinking, — 

“ Visions born of golden sunsets 
With the sunsets go,” 

“ Come, let’s find a cosey nook and enjoy the view. 
Miss McChesney.” 

She takes no notice, but pointing across the gorge 
with her parasol, says, — 

“I wonder how high that blulf is?” 

“ What a pity father is not here to calculate the dis- 
tance from base to summit!” says Lincoln. And Dr. 
Reed again puts his question to Blanche : 

“Miss McChesney, will you come and let’s find a 
seat ?” 

She turns her eyes full upon him this time. 

“It occurs to me,” she observes, “that we came 
here to see a fall. Have you seen it, doctor ? It did 


AT DOE CREEK. 


139 


seem, once, as if I heard water somewhere, but I can’t 
see any.” 

“Come higher up, Blanche,” urges Lincoln. “Miss 
Courtney, will you come ?” 

“ Yes, indeed,” I reply ; “ lead on. I am ready to 
follow anywhere, if you will only keep in sight of this 
grandly beautiful spot.” 

“Yery well, then; forward. ‘Intothe jaws of death,’” 
he shouts, waving his hat as he stops a moment upon 
a smooth, projecting rock. 

I follow in the wake of Blanche and the doctor, 
while Lincoln leads the way. 

“Yonder is the fall,” he says to me, when at last 
we stand upon firmer footing. “ That is Doe Creek 
Falls. After dinner, if you will promise not to tell the 
others, we’ll find a path down below where you see the 
mist, which I fancy must be the delicate dress of the 
old-time water-sprites. Half-way down, you observe, 
there is a natural bridge, strong enough to support a 
four-horse team, our driver tells me. Away back be- 
hind the watery veil is a cave-like opening where the 
• wild-catters used to ‘ still.’ Authority, our driver.” 

“ What a hiding-place !” I exclaim. “ It seems to me 
as if the best and loveliest spots in the mountain are 
the places selected for unlawful distilling. I pity the 
revenue officer mad enough to attempt a raid here. 
How did the wild-catters reach the still? There 
seems to be no road.” 

“ There is none,” he replies. “ There is only a nar- 
row path leading in a zigzag way around and down 
the bluff. They were accustomed to bringing their 
wagons to this path, and then, 1 am reliably informed, 
‘they fetched the truck ter the still’ by hand-power, — 
you Southern girls would say they ‘toted’ it, and I 


140 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


‘ guess’ they did ; but North everything is done by 
‘ power.’ ” 

“ No doubt you think you are a powerful people,” I 
retort, always ready for a skirmish. 

“No quarrelling,” orders Blanche, peremptorily. 
“Lincoln, I will send you home, and, Nell, I shall call 
your brother unless you both leave off at once. You 
two are always ready to fly at each Qther’s throat; 
you are a nuisance with your continual jowing. Come, 
doctor, let’s find the creek itself; I think we can 
reach the bluff above, over which it falls. Shall wo 
try ?” 

“I am at your service,” he declares, and they turn 
their backs upon us. I look into the eyes watching 
me in expectant uncertainty. 

“We didn’t quite come to a quarrel that time,” I 
venture. 

“ Suppose we make it up,” he suggests. 

“And follow?” I ask, picking up my hat, which I 
threw aside a moment since. 

“And follow!” he declares. “-Eight upon them!” 

They hear our shout, and wait. 

“ Already ?” asks Blanche. 

“ Quick wounds, quick healing,” says Lincoln. “ In 
fact, nobody was quarrelling except you. Miss Court- 
ney complimented my people ” 

‘ ‘7 did 710^,” I interrupt him. 

“ Hello ! what’s the trouble ?” calls a voice from the 
elder-bushes. 

“ Oh, Mr. Courtney, I am so glad you have come,” 
says Blanche. 

“Thank you,” replies Eobert; “but I have been 
right here almost all morning.” 

“Well, then, I am glad we have come to yow,” she 


AT DOE CREEK. 


141 


says. ‘‘ Lincoln and i^ell have done nothing but quar- 
rel all day, just like two children.” 

“ Separate them,” he advises. “ If you will see to 
the young gentleman, I will take ISTell under my wing.” 

“We refuse to be separated,” Lincoln declares, 
coming to my side. “ The man who attempts it will 
bring upon himself the blame of seeing us leap from 
this rock. Better death than separation, — hey, Miss 
Courtney ?” 

“ Infinitely better,” I reply. 

“ Oh, such consistency,” says Blanche. “ A moment 
since they were ready to hurl each other from this 
same rock, and only hesitated to determine who should 
go first.” 

And then Eobert, looking at his watch, declares it is 
twelve o’clock, and dinner-time. 

“ Hot until we see the creek,” begs Blanche ; “ it 
must be near here. Do let’s see it before dinner. Ho- 
body feels like climbing after dinner.” 

And so we start again, over rock, brier, and bush ; the 
stones bruising our feet, and the thorns stinging our 
hands and faces or snatching bits of our dresses. At 
last we gain the wished-for spot, where a broad, clear 
sheet of water flows along, so noiselessly we catch 
our breath to listen ; scarcely a ripple, only a faint, 
dreamy hum when 5^ou bend your ear, as if intending 
to make the leap over the precipice a surprise. Like 
some beast of prey creeping stealthily through the 
woods and seizing suddenly upon its victim, so the 
stream, with a sudden rush and whirl, a scream of 
mad delight, dashes over the rocky ridge one hundred 
feet ! 

Lincoln beckons me to his side, and, peeping cau- 
tiously over the dizzy height, says, — 


142 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ Do you see that green-looking object away down 
yonder? — No, a little farther this way; see it? Well, 
that is the basin that receives the water when it 
reaches the bottom. Now look up. You see that 
tallest peak up there, the white-looking wall projecting 
farthest out ? That is the ‘ Eagle’s Eyrie,’ and if you 
say so, we’ll climb to it.” 

“ Impossible,” I exclaim. ‘‘ Why, it is three or four 
hundred feet.” 

“ Oh, we don’t propose taking a bee-line to it,” he 
explains. 

“ No,” I reply. “ I rather think it will have to be an 
‘ air-line.’ I am not a chamois.” 

“ I don’t know,” he says, petulantly, “ but it seems 
to me there’s a good deal of ‘ sham’ of some sort about 
you.” 

“ It’s only ray front hair,” I reply, determined not to 
quarrel. 

“ Well, if you don’t care to go, Blanche does,” he says. 
“ I only gave you first choice out of ‘ respect to age.’ ” 

“ I am not the older, and you know it, Lincoln Craw- 
ford,” I retort, angrily. 

“ Beg pardon, who said you were ?” 

“ You did.” 

“ I did not,” he declares. “ I said I made you first 
choice out of respect to age, — Blanche’s age, of course. 
I thought she was probably too old to undertake such 
a climb. I have great respect for Blanche's age.” 

“ Oh, you goose !” I exclaim. I hate a Yankee.” 

“ See here,” he says, rising, “ you need not mount a 
rotten log and threaten to break your neck in order to 
effect a reconciliation. • I am not in a quarrelling hu- 
mor to-day, for if I lose you I am minus a partner. 
Come on, now, and let’s be sprightly and take a peep 


AT DOE CREEK. 


143 


from the Eagle’s Eyrie ; it isn’t such hard climbing, but 
I know none of those ducky-hearted dears down there 
would attempt it. Will you come ?” 

Would I, indeed! The awful height holds and 
charms me, and draws me, until the desire to stand 
upon the cloud-rifted top is no longer to be resisted. 

Blanche is dividing her attention between the doctor 
and Eobert. Eobert is dividing his between Blanche 
and the girl with the white daisies ; so, choosing a 
moment when all four are busy in the contemplation 
of some newly-found object, we steal away, creeping 
behind a laurel-hedge until beyond probability of being 
seen. Soon we begin our perilous ascent. Higher, 
and still higher ; the tops of the tall poplars are below ; 
the noise of the falling water no longer reaches our 
ears; the cove presents only a black emptiness leading 
to — what ? Above us, the pines are touching their tops 
against the sky. My companion pauses once when we 
are half up, and looks back on the path by which we 
have come. 

' “ Perhaps we had better go back,” he half questions. 

“Ho, it is too late now,” I answer; “they would 
only laugh at us. Besides, the worst is over.” 

“ Ho, it is steeper every step we take. I fear it will 
be dangerous to go farther.” 

“Don’t ‘take a bee-line,”’ I quote; “let us lean far- 
ther to the right and go more around the mountain.” 

He pauses irresolute ; I raise my hand and point to 
the white, glistening rocks. 

At the same moment, the faint sound of voices calling 
tells us our flight has been discovered. 

“ Hell I” a man’s voice shouts. 

The grim old rock above repeats “ Hell 1” and passes 
the word to his neighbor, which cries “Hell!” bur- 


144 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

riedly, and hurls the monosyllable on. Then the next 
rock catches it in a frightened kind of scream, and 
sends it thrilling, trilling, breaking, dying, “Ne-1-1 — 
l!^e-l-l — N-e-1-1 — N-e-1-1,” until finally the sound is lost 
altogether. We press on ; and now the pines are com- 
ing nearer, and the clouds are farther up ; the ascent be- 
comes more easy ; and now we are up ! We stand upon 
the heights I We overlook the world below I Lincoln 
holds out one hand while with the other he lifts his hat. 

“ Miss Courtney, you are a trump.” 

“Since compliments are in order,” bowing, “Mr. 
Crawford, you are a hero.” 

“ I wonder how long it will be before your ‘ hero’ is 
a contemptible Yankee ?” he asks. 

“ No ‘ contemptible Yankee’ will ever be my ‘ hero,’ ” 
I return. “ 1 wonder where the others are : can you 
see them ?” 

“ Can you see Turkey ?” he asks. 

“No, but I have an idea it is in the basket Aunt 
Sally sent for us. I saw Jenny stuffing a sack with 
feathers yesterday ; and at night I went to the kitchen 
to borrow an iron to press a sash, and was informed 
that both the flat-irons ‘ war a usin’ to press the turkey- 
wings.’ ” 

“ Is the hotel run on two flat-irons ?” he asks. 

“ No, it is stationary,” is my reply, and I continue my 
search for the picnickers. 

“I see them,” I exclaim, as a glimmer of white 
emerges suddenly from the thick, wood. “Look! 
yonder are Blanche and Eobert, and — let’s see — there’s 
the doctor and all the rest. Let’s halloo.” 

“ Halloo ’till you’re hoarse, my dear,” he says, trag- 
ically. “You are completely in my power; attempt 
to escape, — here, Cerberus!” 


AT DOE CREEK. 


145 


“Oh, dear Mr. Pluto, don’t!” I beg. “I haven’t so 
much as tasted a huckleberry, still less a pomegranate, 
since my arrival here.” And then, “ Eeally, couldn’t 
they hear us if we called ?” 

“ Try it,” he says. 

I put my hands to my lips and shout “Blanche! 
Blanche!” with a prolonged rising accent on the last 
syllable. “ Oh, Blanche !” in a quick, snappy tone. 
The wind whirls the sound northward, and I give it 
up in despair. 

“Are you nervous?” asks Lincoln. 

“Nervous?” I say, contemptuously. “Fire a vol- 
cano under my feet and see.” 

“Well, you are a curiosity, or else not a woman of 
this nineteenth century, if you are not painfully, aw- 
fully nervous. Yolcanoes usually fire themselves, I 
believe ; but if you’ll promise not to have a fit, I will 
fire a pistol.” 

“ I am not ‘ fitified,’ so fire,” is my reply. 

He takes a revolver from his pocket, aims at a clump 
of sassafras-bushes half-way down the bluff, and fires. 
Bang ! Bang ! bang-bang, at the same moment voices 
call faintly from the other side, and a white parasol is 
waved to us. 

“ Why could they not hear us calling ? We can hear 
them,” I ask. 

“ Easily enough explained,” he says : “ the wind 
blows this way, and brings the sound to us; it carries 
our voices exactly in the contrary direction, — a contrary 
wind, it comes from the south. We are fearfully high 
here. Miss Courtney ; will you please to peep into the 
White House and tell me what the President is doing?” 

I crane my neck, shade my eyes, and answer, — 

“ Still turning the rascals out.’^ 

Q k 13 


146 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ Did the good work begin, like charity, at home ?” 
he asks, throwing himself upon a bed of moss, full 
length, with his arms crossed beneath his head. “ Now, 
then, step upon the next stone and see if the queen is 
engaged in her usual employment.” 

“Exactly as usual,” I reply, climbing a step higher; 
“ quarrelling with her cabinet, ignoring Ireland, writing 
romances.” 

“ What of the Czar? Is Eussia calm to-day?” 

“ Quite calm,” I tell him, shifting m'y gaze. “ The 
Czar has introduced a new industry, raising scenters 
to track Nihilists.” 

“Are they Irish-blooded,” he asks, lazily. 

“No; they are warranted full-blooded Yankees.” 

“ Our driver tells us we can see into Africa from this 
point. Suppose you try it,” he says ; and I answer, 
as I step down from the rock, — 

“ Oh, you are a true Yankee. Your friends there 
are enjoying their usual health. My lord, where are 
the eagles which tradition says haunt this rocky 
height?” 

, “ Gone to make a fast-day dinner for the buzzards 
long ago,” he says. “ Come farther this way, or you 
will soon go to share the fate of the king-bird of the 
mountains.” 

The sun stands perpendicular over the little cove; 
the blue haze is creeping eastward : it is past noon. 
How many ages have the sunny noons, the chilling 
gray dawns, and the lonesome twilights come and gone 
on the mountain unseen ! How many miracles of air 
and earth and water, how many terrors of electricity, 
have been performed in this lonely spot with only the 
stars to watch ! 

For half an hour we sit looking at the distant peaks 


AT DOE CREEK. 147 

and the shifting sunshine. Now a pistol is fired below, 
and an indistinct echo of voices tells that they are 
calling us. 

“ Almost two o’clock,” says Lincoln. “ I am fam- 
ished. Miss Courtney, that shooting I take it is a 
signal for dinner. Shall we descend?” 

“ Yes, we must go down ; we are keeping them from 
their lunch. I have an idea descending will be a sub- 
ject of as much consideration as the ascending.” 

And I am not wrong in my conjecture. The bushes 
that had offered a hold in coming up are useless 
in going down ; the stones upon which we steadied 
ourselves slip beneath our feet and go ringing down 
the mountain ; the earth crumbles and falls away 
when our cautious feet touch it. Half-way down we 
meet Eobert, breathless and anxious. 

“Nell, 1 have been very uneasy,” he says, when he 
reaches us. “ This is a fearful climb, and you were so 
long coming. My sister, you must exercise more judg- 
ment in your experiments, or I shall not answer for 
the results.” 

And that horrid Yankee, he who has drawn me into 
the scrape, stands smiling and unconcerned, leaving me 
to bear the blame alone. 

When we join the party again, they are at dinner. 
The cloths are spread upon a large flat rock, where, 
we are assured, an ant or a “ lady-bug” cannot possibly 
intrude. As we come up, Blanche is saying, — 

“ You two are the most selfish couple I have met in 
many a day ; was the visit to ‘ Eagle’s Eyrie’ a private 
mission, that you did not ask any of us to go?” 

“Now, Blanche,” says Lincoln, describing a circle 
around a huge biscuit with his ten fingers, preparatory 
to the opening act, “you know I never carry my 


148 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

friends into danger; it is only ray foes who are be- 
guiled into venturesome paths and deadly copper- 
snakes’ nests.” 

“Snakes! Did you see any?” cries a chorus of 
voices. 

“Lots of them; the woods up yonder are alive with 
them, — rattlers, copperheads, racers, moccasins, boas.” 

“Oh, stuff!” says Blanche. “Were there any mon- 
keys in the trees ?” 

“No,” he says ; “ we left them on this side.” 

There is a laugh at Blanche’s expense. 

“Crawford, will you have some ham?” asks Robert. 

“No, thank you ; I prefer turkey.” 

“ Prefer what !” exclaim half a dozen surprised voices. 

“ Turkey,” he says. “ I was reliably informed that 
a turkey was seen yesterday in process of preparation.” 

“No, you were not,” I put in. “You were informed 
that the feathers were seen, not the fowl.” 

It is not such a great disappointment after all. 
Climbing has whetted our appetites, and the ham and 
dried venison, the fat country biscuit, pickles, sweet- 
cakes, and dried-apple turnovers, are good enough for 
a king. 

“ Where is the driver ?” Lincoln asks when, dinner 
over, we are busy with the cleaning up. 

Robert answers, — 

“ Soon after our arrival I came upon him, down on 
all-fours before a hole of small dimensions, in the mouth 
of which he had kindled a fire of dry leaves and sticks ; 
he was fanning the smoke into the cavity with his hat. 
He told me he had a coon in there, and was smoking 
her out. He afterwards asked permission to carry it 
home, which I granted ; he will not be back until five 
o’clock, at which hour we will start home. It is now 


AT DOE CREEK. 


149 


half-past two. Lincoln, what is the programme for the 
afternoon ?” 

“A cigar under this birch-tree,” suiting the action to 
the word, “ with • the dreamy tinkle of this waterfall 
sounding in my ears, beguiling me to slumber.” 

“ Take care it does not beguile you over that bluff ; 
if you contemplate a nap you had better select a safer 
snoozing-place.” 

“ No, no I there is no danger of sleep if you gentle- 
men join me, — ‘ strength in unity,’ you know. Here 
are cigars, ‘ Cherry Lips,’ ‘ Sweet Mary,’ ‘ Glad Tidings,’ 
and reliable old Durham. Sorry I have no Havanas, but 
they are so common gentlemen have quit them ; only 
dudes, darkies, and beggars smoke them these times.” 

Under the shade of the branching birch they range 
themselves in picturesque, careless grouping, the smoke 
from their cigars wreathing gracefully around their 
heads, while the drowsy murmur of the water falling 
over the rocks becomes a love-tune sung to the lonely 
forests. 

The afternoon sun slants to westward ; a long, ob- 
lique path of light falls upon the distant summits. 
Wild bees are humming in the branches of the water 
birch near by. 

“I wonder if we shall find another such place as 
this ?” I say, as the dreamy dulness steals over us. 

“ No,” responds Blanche ; “ we will find more fash- 
ionable resorts soon, where the daily routine is dress, 
eat, and gossip. I believe they are calling us.” 

The gentlemen have finished their cigars ; it has 
been moved and carried that we view the scene from 
below. Eested and refreshed, we again take up our 
line of march. At first glance it seems beyond possi- 
bility to descend that steep, almost perpendicular wall ; 

13 * 


150 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

but some distance from the fall at the head of the cove 
there had once been a path, which we succeed at last in 
finding. It winds round the blutf in such a manner 
that the descent is easy, if somewhat lengthy. At 
last, however, we stand below in the very cove itself, 
and look up where we spent the morning. It seems 
impossible to believe we have been so high, even when 
upon the lowest ledge. “Eagle Eyrie” viewed from 
the distance is again hiding its bold head in the clouds. 
At the foot of the falls, which below are only a great 
basin of solid rock receiving the water as it comes 
down, not a ripple breaks the still, glass-like surface ; 
the water is as motionless as though no cataract thun- 
dered above it ; as still as Galilee at the command of its 
princely Pilot. 

“ It hev a leak som’ers,” the driver has told us; “ case 
ef it didn’t it would full up an’ run over; it hev a leak 
what draps the water down th’ugh it.” 

He had been laughed at for his supposition, and did 
not like it. So when asked where it went when it 
“ drapped,” he replied, — 

“ To cool hell fur all I knows.” 

Accepting the old, ignorant idea that the place of 
eternal punishment is below us, and calculating from 
the highest peak above, considering, of course, the ac- 
tual diameter of the globe, the mountaineer may not 
be wrong in his idea that the cooling draught is not far 
from the fulfilment of its Plutonian mission, tormenting 
Tantalus, mocking Dives, making hell. 

“ Let’s go behind the Fall,” suggests Lincoln. 

“ You cannot do it,” decides Eobert ; “ there is no 
path.” 

“We will make one. You must know I am a Yan- 
kee,” he replies. “ There must be some way to get 


AT DOE CREEK. 


151 


there, for it was there the ‘ still’ was, just above the 
bridge of rocks. Miss Courtney, we can find a path, I 
am sure ; will you try it?” 

“ ^^^ot without me,” says Robert. “ I have no fancy 
for sitting here again, waiting for her dead body to 
come falling from the rocks.” 

“ I am sure you wait very patiently,” Lincoln says. 
“We spent two hours on the ‘Eagle’s Eyrie,’ and you 
seem to exist very well. However, we are glad to 
have you ; you will be handy in case of a battle. 
Blanche, you must come to see that I am not imposed 
upon.” 

A shadow falls upon the fair face. 

“ Ho, the rocks are too damp, I am afraid. And I 
promised Mrs. Crawford to stay on dry ground. Dr. 
Reed, I am going to ask you to remain with me and 
protect me from the copperheads and other veno- 
mous things. We will wait under this large birch 
until they return from their cavernous pilgrimage. 
Ugh ! I hate caves.” 

The doctor is only too happy, as she knew he would 
be. As we are in the act of passing behind the watery 
veil, I look toward the birch-tree and see Blanche seated 
upon a low mossy stone, her hat oflT, and her face turned 
from us. Dr. Reed is seated by her side, holding the 
white parasol over her head. 

One has few things to interest at summer resorts ; 
take away the dressing and flirting, and the whole 
thing is flat and stale. To be noticed, one must dress 
well ; to be attractive, one must flirt well ; then one’s 
success is insured. There is little of either at Clark- 
town, and yet it is a summer resort, and, strange to 
say, is not dull ; but then it is new and unknown, — 
these things follow fashion. We ramble through the 


152 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

woods, we enjoy it, because we are not spoiling our 
best dresses; when we bruise our feet climbing over 
rocks, we bathe them in the cool branch when nobody 
is looking, and we are ready for another tramp next 
day. So when we soil our hands climbing behind the 
falls of Doe Creek, we stand near enough to catch the 
white foamy water and wash the stain away, then dry 
them with our pocket-handkerchiefs, laughing, while 
the spray beats in our faces and removes the last hint 
of curl in our hair. Oh, it is pleasure, — real, whole- 
some, honest pleasure ; and drinking it in, this summer 
afternoon, the future too seems a sheen of silver before 
us, as we stand in the cavern’s silver-veiled mouth. 
We see “through the veil,” verily, but not “darkly,” 
for is not the heart singing, — 

“ Something made the milk-white lilies 
Even whiter grow, 

Something gave the dying sunset 
An intenser glow, 

And enriched the cup of rapture, 

Filled to overflow.” 

We do not tarry long under the falls; it is as 
Blanche said, “ damp,” and, moreover, the hands upon 
Eobert’s watch — the only reliable timepiece among 
us to-day — point to four. It will require some time to 
retrace our steps to our starting-place, and before we 
are well rested it will be five o’clock. The two figures 
are still waiting under the birch-tree, half hidden by 
the parasol ; they do not heed our approach until we 
are so near I can hear Blanche saying, in a surprised 
tone, — 

“ Where did you get it?” 

And he replies, — 


AT DOE CREEK. 


153 


‘‘At the Rainbow Bluff; I recognized your face.” 
And I know without seeing it that he is handing her 
the black onyx locket. I would have joined them, but 
X/incoln touches my sleeve. 

“ This way,” he says ; “ have you lived so long and 
never learned the definition of good company?” And 
as we turn away and slowly go back to the upper 
bluff, he breaks into a song, — 

“ Down the zigzag one body went, 

On a secret sweet was one body bent ; 

And one body must have known the same, 

Dor up the zigzag one body came. 

And side by side these two bodies stand. 

One body holding to one body’s hand. 

And time is sweet where the shadows fall. 

Till a third body came and spoiled it all.” 

Slowly we climb the winding foot-path, the song 
broken and interrupted as the singer pauses for breath : 

“ Grloomily, gloomily, wander they on, — 

Two is company, three is none.” 

At last we gather upon the upper bluflP, and Lincoln 
turns to leave us. 

“ Where now, Courtney ?” asks Robert. 

“Going back for Blanche,” he replies. “Reed will 
forget to come up, he is so well satisfied where he is.” 

And as Robert laughs in a low, pleased way, I know 
he is glad that Lincoln has gone to separate the pair 
under the tree. 

The shadows are already creeping stealthilj^ across 
the cove ; happy days end the same as others, in spite 
of our effort to keep them. The two under the tree 
do not seem to think so ; as Lincoln hurries down the 


154 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

path to remind them, I lean over the bluff beneath 
which he is passing, and call to him, — 

“ Two is company, three is none.” 

He glances up, waves his handkerchief, and disap- 
pears around a ledge. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

«THB OLD MEETIN’-HOUSE ON DEVIL’S CREEK.” 

“ ’Tis not the wide phylactery, 

Nor stubborn facts, nor stated prayers. 

That makes us saints : we judge the tree 
By what it hears.’* 

By dint of well-supported and continued persuasion 
we induce Uncle Billy to let us have Prince, his horse, 
for an afternoon, and also to assist us in procuring three 
other animals for a ride over the mountains. 

At four o’clock the horses are at the door; ten 
minutes later we have left the Springs behind us, and 
are flying over the sandy road, — Blanche, Eobert, 
Crawford Junior, and I. 

When we have ridden some miles, Bob observes that 
“a storm is rising.” The sky is blue and seemingly 
clear, and we scout the idea of a storm brewing simply 
because a sharp wind has sprung up. On we ride, 
with the bracing air tanning our cheeks and filling our 
frames with new life. 

When we draw up, Lincoln and I, to water our 
horses in the swift and deep mountain stream, Bob 
I ides hurriedly up and directs our attention to a black- 


^^THE OLD MEETIN'-HOVSE.'' 155 

looking cloud rising in our rear. Too late to return : 
the rain will be upon us in ten minutes. 

“ Eide on, up the creek,” he tells us. “ There was 
once an old haunted church there, where we can pos- 
sibly wait until the storm is over.” 

A haunted church and a storm ; this savors of ad- 
venture. We push our animals on, running a race 
with the fast-gathering cloud. 

We find the old church has been torn away, and the 
neat little chapel that stands upon the site is locked and 
the windows made fast. 

“Eide on, — there is a house,” calls Bob. And on 
w^e ride, reaching the cottage just as the great drops 
of rain begin to beat into our faces. A man is watching 
our coming from the door-step ; as we draw up at the 
gate he drops the quid of tobacco be is chewing, into 
his band, tosses it into the grass, and comes to meet us. 

“ Git down,” ho calls, “ double - quick ! It’s a- 
coming.” 

To Bob’s request for permission to stop, he says, — 

“ ’Tain’t no time to talk about it; holp the women 
down before that cloud breaks, and I’ll git the bosses 
in the shed.” 

“ We will need them in a few minutes,” says Bob ; 
“ as soon as the shower is over.” 

“ That shows what you know of the storms on 
Devil’s Creek. Ye’ll not need ’em for this nights 

He points toward the door, and Blanche and I run 
into the warm, cheerful light of a fire that is burning 
in the open fireplace. An old woman sitting in front 
of the blaze, dreaming over her knitting, rises as we 
enter, and pleasantly bidding us come up and dry our 
clothes, disappears. 

The room in which we find ourselves is scrupulously 


156 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND, 

clean, and gives evidence of some taste. Red calico 
curtains are looped back from the window ] a rose- 
bush, full of pink blossoms, taps against the outside 
pane as the wind or rain tosses the heavy-laden ten- 
drils. The floor is carpetless, but shines with the gloss 
left by a late scrubbing with white sand. 

Upon the walls several modest pictures are tacked : 
one setting forth the glories of some particular garden- 
seed \ another, the excellence of a certain brand of 
sewing-thread ; over the mantel-shelf, where doubtless 
the old yellow almanac once swung by its slender red 
cord, a neat new calendar tells the run of time, and the 
praises of a j^opular insurance company. 

Bob and Lincoln soon enter, and the thoughtful 
household leaves us the fire and the room. 

“ Bob,” I say, when we are seated around the blaze, 
“ was that your haunted church down on the creek ?” 

“No,” he answers; “the new church has been built 
since I was in the mountains. I suppose this is a 
sort of combination meeting-house, — one side Baptist, 
one Presbyterian, and the two ends Methodist ; the first 
Sunday of the month Baptist day, the next Methodist, 
the third Presbyterian, and the fourth a general prayer- 
meeting.” 

“ That is a most excellent arrangement,” says Lin- 
coln ; “ in that way the entire community gets a sprink- 
ling of Methodism and a touch of Predestination with 
which to temper the Baptist egotism and selfishness 
which ‘flesh is heir to.’ The building we passed 
seemed to be a new one, Courtney.” 

“Yes,” Robert answers; “the log house that stood 
there in the old stage-days was called the Baptist 
meeting-house ; for the reason that the only minister 
in these parts ‘ was of the Baptist persuasion.’ They 


“ THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.'^ 157 

said the house was haunted. A man supposed to have 
lost his way in the mountains once, crept into the 
church and fell asleep ; the next Sunday he was found 
lying dead across the aisle. We will try to get the 
story out of our host to-night.” 

“ To-night ?” Blanche and I exclaim. “ Are we to 
stay all night V 

“ J udging from the weather, I think we will be com- 
pelled to do so,” he replies. “ I think they will scarcely 
expect us at home to-night.” 

“ They’ll know you’re stabled,” says our host, who 
enters at the moment, and lays a fresh log upon the fire, 
explaining, “Granny always like a fire when it rains; 
hey, granny?” 

“My bones ain’t as young as they useter be,” says 
granny, who, standing just within the door, draws 
nearer as her grandson addresses her. 

“ Be you-uns a-travellin’ ?” she asks, and Bob acts as 
spokesman. 

“We are only on a pleasure trip.” 

She takes her pipe from its place in the corner of the 
hearth, fills it from the brown worsted bag hanging just 
under the mantel, rakes a coal from the fire with the 
end of the stick she carries, holds her pipe conveniently 
upon the hearth, and pushes the coal of fire into the 
bowl with the toe of her coarse leather shoe ; then she 
says, deliberately as her pipe-lighting has been, — 

“ I don’t see the pleasure in trippin’ over the mount’n 
alius.” 

I can hear Lincoln’s low chuckle as Bob plunges 
deeper into embarrassment. 

“ Oh, we shall not travel always ; we will find a com- 
fortable place and locate for the summer. The country 
is better beyond here, is it not ?” 

14 


158 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ I alius ’lowed this wus good enough fur me,” replies 
the old woman ; “ an’ some folks may go further an’ 
find wusser.” 

Again Lincoln chuckles, and Bob attempts to explain. 

“ To be sure,” he says ; “ I only meant in point of 
fertilization.” 

“ Who be he ?” she asks, in innocent surprise at the 
unknown arrival. 

“Ahem !” comes from Lincoln’s chair, and Bob makes 
a last desperate effort to elucidate matters : 

“ I meant to ask you if the land is not better farther 
on ?” 

“This air good enough fur me,” she insists. “We- 
uns hev worked it fifty year an’ better, an’ we alius 
hev firewood an’ victuals.” 

“ What do you raise mostly ?” asks persistent Bob. 

“Truck,” is the answer, — “gyard’n truck. AYe gits 

I a little terbaccer off ’n the old sheep lot ; it air too poor, 
that sheep Ian’ air, to raise a disturbance. The gov’- 
mint sot a tax on terbaccer, an’ so we-uns jest raises a 
han’ful an’ smokes it up, barrin’ what Sally grin’s inter 
snuff. Sally air pow’ful sot on the bresh.” 

Here the much-abused Sally makes her appearance 
and invites us into the kitchen, where supper is waiting. 
AYatching the industrious little woman flitting around 
the tea-table, bright, cheery, and hospitable, and glan- 
cing across to the old grandmother, I institute a com- 
parison : one is of the old primitive days, tottering upon 
the grave of an age and customs which, like herself, are 
quietly slipping into oblivion ; the other hoj)eful and 
glad with the dawn of a new day. 

“Sally, is yer aigs gin out?” asks the old woman. 

“ The hens ain’t layin’ much ; they air bent on 
settin’,” is the answer. 


“ THE OLD MEETIN’-HOUSE.” 


159 


“You should have an incubator,” suggests Lin- 
coln. 

“A which?” asks the old woman, while even the 
younger one pauses in the act of dropping a spoonful 
of batter upon the hoe, where she is frying cakes for 
the evening meal. 

“ An incubator,” says Lincoln ; “ that is, a machine 
for hatching eggs. Your hens can then lay on, and 
you can do the hatching with the machine.” 

The old lady drops her knife across her plate : 

“I hev seed curious sights in this mount’n, and I 
hev seed curious folks, and I have seed sich as could 
hatch up a lie on mighty short notice.” 

It is Bob’s turn to chuckle, while Lincoln stammers 
a compliment to the good woman’s candor. 

“I am what I am, an’ I ain’t no ammer,” is the em- 
phatic reply, and we soon adjourn to the sitting-room 
again. 

The rain persistently patters upon the window-pane, 
the rose-bush taps upon the glass, and the wind howls 
around the house with the lonesome, desolate sound as 
of winds in November. 

“ How the wind howls I” says Blanche, and we are 
reminded this is a good time for a ghost-story. “ Sally” 
brings her chair and joins our circle; two white-haired 
children draw their little stools either side of the old 
grandmother and rest their arms upon her knee, as she 
nods over the red yarn she is forming into stockings 
for their baby feet. 

Bob asks our host for the story of the old meeting- 
house. 

“ I can’t cheat granny out of tollin’ that story,” ho 
declares. “That’s her special pleasure, spinnin’ that 
ole Baptis’ yarn. Granny,” he calls, “wake up and 


160 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

tell about the ghosts that useter ha’nt Hord’s meetin’- 
house.” 

“ I hain’t been ter sleep as I knows on,” says grannj^ 
knitting vigorously in support of her assertion. “ Ole 
Hord’s been gone the long way time enough to a-laid 
them sperits ; but they ain’t laid yit, an’ won’t be in my 
day.” 

“ Was the church really haunted ?” asks Blanche. 

“ It am a fac’, for I wus beknownst to it,” she de- 
clares. ‘‘They useter tell all sorts o’ tales about it, an’ 
I’ll tell you-uns one of ’em. The meetin’-house wus 
on Devil’s Creek, near the ole Yirginny wagon-road. 
We-uns, my ole man, — him as wus a young man then, 
— my ole man an’ me lived forenenst the creek in the 
Hord neighborhood. Folks wus toler’ble bad in the 
mount’ns them days, though I alius ’lowed they wus 
better’ll they wus down ter Sparty. Why, they didn’t 
’low a preacher to locate in Sparty them days. Onc’t 
when a new parson went ter Sparty the man what solo 
liquor axed him to take a drink along o’ him. An’ they 
tell the word that the parson ’lowed he couldn’t ’com- 
modate him that way, but he mought some other; an’ 
he just turn’t him ’roun’ same ’s he’d been one o’ his 
own whisky-bar’ls, an’ kick’d him plum ’cross the street, 
an’ thin kick’d him back agin to the pavemint on t’other 
side. An’ that parson stayed thar an’ j)reached the 
word ; I hearn him onc’t. 

“ How, Parson Hord never fit ; he tuk his glass now’n 
then, but he wus a Hardshell, an’ that gin him license. 
He wus a good man, an’ a pow’ful b’liever in babtism : 
the meetin’-house bein’ convenient ter the water, he 
help’d many a sinner to drap his load in Devil’s Creek. 
An’ he wus pow’ful in pra’r. When old Parson Hord 
useter lift his voice in supplication the winders o’ that 


“ THE OLD MEETIH-HOUSE,^^ IGl 

old meetin’-house ’d rattle, an’ the rocks o’ the blutf 
outside would fling back the words that j)lain the 
women folkses ’lowed ’twar sperits, — the sperit o’ the 
man what wus found dead onc’t in the meetin’-house. 

“ The ole parson b’lieved pow’ful in pra’r. Still, he 
wus human, an’ like the balance on us liked to turn a 
penny now’n thin. It was his besott’n sin, money wus, 
an’ he didn’t make no bones o’ tellin’ his weakness. He 
useter ’low as how he’d hev to fight it out with ole Hick 
afore he’d let him oif. 

“ Waal, one meetin’ day he wus missin’ ; the folkses 
kep’ a- waitin’ an’ waitin’ untel they jes’ riz up an’ went 
home, a-lowing as the parson must be dead. 

“But it all leaked out afore night why the preacher 
wa’n’t to his pulpit ; it happ’ned this way : he wus a 
blacksmith an’ a carpinter by trade, an’ a preacher by 
persuasion ; an’ that mornin’ as he wus goin’ out’n the 
gate to meetin’ he was met by a young chap travel- 
lin’ from ole Yirginny to Tennessee; they useter pass 
there by the cyart-load. The young chap had a load 
o’ niggers gone on ahead ; he wus fotchin’ on ’em to 
Tennessee fur to sell ’em; an’ his own wag’n broke 
down a-crossin’ Devil’s Creek, an’ the twenty-five head 
o’ niggers had done gone on. Parson Hord know’d by 
the way the young chap han’led his long whip as ho 
wus useter givin’ orders ; so he says, — 

“ ‘ Good-day, stranger.’ 

“An’ the Virginny chap said the word as how he 
wus bruk down, an’ come to git the ole man to tinker 
on his axle-tree a bit. 

“This riled the parson’s dander, an’ he said, ‘Be 
you-uns heathens in old Yirginny, as makes axle- 
trees on Sunday ?’ 

“ It wa’n’t no use a-arguin’ an’ a-beggin’, an’ a-sayin’ 

I 14 * 


162 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

Scriptur’ talk bout’n the ox bein’ in the ditch. The 
parson ’lowed he wus flung thar with a rottin’ axle^ 
tree, an’ seein’ the critter looked hearty, he further 
’lowed h’d live till Monday, an’ started off to meetin’. 
The stranger ’minded him o’ the twenty-five head o’ 
hungry niggers a-waitin’ fur him, an’ nowhar to go. 
Mo use ; Parson Hord ’lowed ‘ he wouldn’t work on 
Sunday fur that man this side the kingdom come.’ 
An’ then the young chap axed him ef he had a 
nigger as knowed more charity ’n he did, an’ what 
had a frien’lier han’, an’ didn’t min’ ’arnin’ a two 
dollar an’ a half gold-piece. 

‘‘ An’ the parson said, — 

“ ‘ See here, stranger, d’ye ’spose I’ll be outdone 
in charity by a black nigger? Why n’t you put it 
that way at fust? Haul yer wagin round to the 
shop. Outdone by a nigger ! An’ me a minister o’ 
the gospil ! I’ll gin you a pull at the ox.’ 

“ An’ all the mornin’ the parson tinkered on that air 
ox ; an’ by twelve o’clock the Yirginny chap was pullin’ 
fur Tennessee, an’ the parson had a yaller gql’-piece 
longside of some more like it in his ole blue stockin’. 

“ But that ain’t all : thar wus pra’r-meetin’ that 
night, an’ jest as the parson wus waxin’ Avarm in 
his sermont it begin to thunder. Arter a spell it begin 
to light’n ; then the win’ waked up, som’rs down 
the mount’n, an’ God a’mighty how it did howl, just 
like a pack o’ demons. The old meetin’-house shuk 
an’ rocked like a baby’s cradle, an’ the windows rat- 
tled like mad ; an’ the parson stopt short in the ser- 
mont an’ said, ‘ Brothren, we better wrastle in pra’r ;’ 
an’ the folkses went down on thur knees to onc’t. 

“ But the more they wrastled the madder the win’ 
got. An’ the lightnin’ blazed away at them ole win- 


^^THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.^’ 


163 


ders like a fourth o’ July. An’ the taller can’les 
ever mother’s son of ’em blinked, an’ dropped, an’ 
sputtered, an’ went out. Then one o’ the gals whis- 
pered, ‘ Sperits !’ kinder scy art-like, an’ the whole house 
set up a howl. 

“ Then the parson got up an’ ’lowed as he wus the 
Jonah as wus on board that ship, an’ he tole all ’bout 
the Yirginny chap, an’ ’lowed himself as he couldn’t 
see that ox till the chap strung the gol’ roun’ its neck. 
An’ arter the confession the folkses jined the parson 
in another wrastle in pra’r. He didn’t pray so bold- 
like this time, nuther, but kinder soft an’ ’shamed, 
as if he wus glad it wus dark ; an’ then the win’ got 
tired o’ cavort’n, an’ went down the mount’n, to 
sleep again ; an’ the sperits quit rattlin’ o’ the win- 
ders, an’ the rain begin to fall soft an’ peaceful-like 
on the bo’rd roof, an’ the can’les wus lit, an’ then the 
folkses jined in singin’, — 

“ ‘ The judgment day am cornin’, 

The judgment day am cornin’, 

Sinners, prepar’ ; 

Pur ye can’t stan’ the fire, 

Naw ye can’t stan’ the fire 
That’ll he thar 1’ 

“ An’ then the rain stopped fur good, an’ the parson 
said the blessin’, an’ the folkses went out from the 
house o’ pra’r, slow an’ meek-like, jest as the moon 
bruk through the driftin’ clouds, shinin’ clear an’ white 
on the mount’n road, a-showin’ the wet places an’ a- 
lightin’ the folkses home. 

“That’s nigh on to fifty year ago. Thar’s a new 
church house thar now, a painted one, a little higher 
up the mount’n an’ a little nigher the rock, so’s to shet 
off the win’ ; but I misdoubts ef they-uns be any nigher 


164 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


the Bock o’ Ages thin wus ole Parson Hord’s flock. 
He’s been a-sleepin’ under the ole tree by the meet- 
in’-house winder nigh on to forty year, Parson Hord 
hev. The old house went down an’ the new one went 
up, but the soun’ o’ the hammer nor the buildin’ didn’t 
bother him none ; he don’t wake fur the singin’, nor 
jine in the prayin’. Hothin’ won’t rouse ’im, nothin’ 
but the trumpet. His old house air done gone to 
strangers, but he’s got a sight better one ef he spoke 
the truth ’bout the one not made with ban’s. His 
money’s done spent by them as didn’t ’arn it, but he’s 
injoyin’ the fortune he laid by, — whar the moth, nor 
rust, nor thief can’t tech it — in — the — house — not — 
made — with ban’s — etar-nel an’ — in — the — heavens.” 

The voice dies to a whisper; the gray head drops 
upon the golden hair of the child’s head nestled upon her 
bosom ; the faded eyes are closed ; the withered hands 
drop their hold upon the precious knitting. Granny 
is fast asleep. 


CHAPTEE XIY. 

IN SECRETO. 

“ I will paint her as I see her. 

* » «• iSt ^ 

Face and figure of a child, 

Though too calm, you think, and tender, 

For the childhood you would lend her.” 

Mornino, the dewy mountain morning, dawns upon 
a weary, half-rested party, worn out with yesterday’s 
escapade on Devil’s Creek. 

Aunt Sally has been persistently ringing the break- 
fast-bell for five minutes. I finish a hasty toilet, and 


IN SECRETO. 


165 


pause a moment to look at Blanche, lying fast asleep 
on the snowy pillows. 

One palm is pressed beneath the fair, colorless cheek, 
and a stray sunbeam stealing through the half-parted 
curtain sends an amber dart through the waves of yel- 
low hair. The prettily-curved lips look as if an unborn 
smile were trembling behind their ruby freshness. I 
stoop and leave a kiss upon them, then draw the curtain 
more closely so that she may sleep on, and then noise- 
lessly leave her. 

Mrs. Crawford looks anxious when I enter the dining-, 
room alone ; and when I have explained that Blanche 
is only tired, and sleeping, the anxious expression does 
not entirely disappear. 

“ Did she rest well, dear ?” she asks. 

“ She slept like a worn-out child,” I reply. 

“ Ah, that is it ; she should not be so worn out. The 
child is exercising too much. Lincoln, you must aban- 
don these all-day jaunts.” 

“I^ow, mother,” he exclaims, as he breaks an egg, 
“do not begin to cry down our pleasant jaunts; they 
are the finest tonic Blanche could possibly find. The 
more soundly she sleeps, the better for her.” 

“ It may be,” sighs the dear little woman, her confi- 
dence in her son’s judgment quieting her fears for 
Blanche. 

“ To be sure it is,” declares the major ; “ the benefit 
she will derive from this summer’s freedom and exer- 
cise will be incalculahley 

He drops his knife upon the table with a loud thud 
expressive of his consternation at finding a problem be- 
yond his skill. 

“Did you-uns hear ’bout the mail-boy that wus 
killed?” asks Aunt Sally, from the upper end of the 


166 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

board. Of course we are all excitement to hear about 
the killing, and Aunt Sally proceeds to tell us how the 
mail-boy was shot while crossing Cliftie, the romantic 
little mountain stream, — shot by some one hidden in the 
thicket just in his rear; and how an innocent man had 
been arrested, tried, and set free; and how the murderer 
had at length confessed his guilt, but would doubtless 
be cleared, as it had been proven that he was “ fitified.” 

“An innocent man tried !” cries the major. “Why, 
the cost of such false accusation ” 

“Oh, father, hang the cost!” exclaims Lincoln. 

“ No, my son, they will hang the man and clear the 
cost, if they are good lawyers.” And the major carries 
the house by storm. 

When I return to Blanche she is still sleeping, and as 
I arrange her breakfast upon the little dressing-table 
I catch sight of a delicate muslin handkerchief with 
something tied in the corner, — something hard and dark. 
Thoughtlessly I undo the tightly-drawn knot, and, for 
the third time, I am face to face with the black onyx 
locket. I press the spring; the trinket lies open in my 
hand, and two wonderfully fair faces are smiling into 
mine. One with dark hair, eyes, and moustache, — a 
handsome, insincere face ; the other the clear-cut, deli- 
cate features and innocent eyes of Blanche McChesney. 

Beautiful, both of them ; and she would have thrown 
the toy away. I gaze a moment at the exquisite color- 
ing of the hair, eye, and lip. Verily, the painter had 
drawn her unaware, — 

“ With a halo round her hair, — 

* * * * * 

And a dreamer, did you show him 
That same picture, would exclaim, 

‘ ’Tis my angel with a name.’ ” 


IN THE ^^B’AR DEESTRICT:' 167 

The sleeper stirs. I replace the locket as I found it, 
and steal away, thinking, — 

“ There is a story behind the lids of that pretty toy.’* 
And I wonder if Bob knows it. 


CHAPTEE XY. 

IN THE «B’AE, DEESTRICT.” 

Woody and wild and lonesome, 

The swift stream glides away, 

Through birches and scarlet maples, — 

Flashing in foam and spray.” 

An uneventful, slow day follows our excursion to 
Devil’s Creek. 

Mrs. Crawford commands “rest,” as if we are tired. 
In the afternoon we have a short ramble in search of 
huckleberries, but they are only beginning to ripen on 
the mountain. 

In the evening there is music in the parlor, yet un- 
usual silence pervades our little hotel. Even the babies 
do not attempt to drown our voices with their cooing 
and crowing to-night, but listen respectfully to the 
music, patting their pretty pink palms in baby fashion 
until the nurses come and carry them away to their 
cradles. 

Only one event has transpired worthy of record. 
Major Crawford and Mrs. Crawford have yielded to our 
entreaties and promised us a night in the “ Gulf,” — > 
“ the great b’ar deestrict.” 

It was only by dint of combined persuasion we ob- 
tained the desired permission, and that, too, on condi- 


168 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

tion we rest an entire day. We have fulfilled the stip- 
ulated condition beforehand ; the hands upon my watch 
point to nine as we rise to leave the parlor. 

‘^Another day like this and I shall commit suicide,” 
says Lincoln, with a yawn. “ Idleness is the curse of 
humanity.” 

“Doubtless you have been severely afilicted,” I re- 
tort. 

“Don’t, Miss Courtney,” be insists. “You and I 
have played partners too long for such as that.” 

“ Do you know,” says Bob, “ we have not yet been 
to ‘Lovers’ Leap’? They tell me there is a fine view 
to be had from that point.” 

“ I move we give ‘ Lovers’ Leap’ the cold shoulder,” 
says Blanche. “We shall find at least fifty of these 
murderous elevations before we shall have rounded up 
our summer travels.” 

“ But they will not be the same,” I suggest. 

“ The same in point of flat, dull, sentimental failure ; 
the same in point of ” 

“Point?” suggests Lincoln, as she hesitates. “And 
I am of your opinion,” he continues ; “ henceforth re- 
cord me a foe to every lovelorn wretch who plants his 
sentimental foot forty feet above sea-level.” 

“ Oh, 5^ou are making my idea ridiculous, as usual,” 
laughs Blanche ; “ but I insist, if humanity furnishes 
but one Pyramus and Thisbe to each of these Lovers’ 
Leaps, there would not be enough of that ‘ beautiful, 
bountiful’ desperate affection left in the world to round 
the romance for a modern novel. I am going : good- 
night.” 

Together we run up the narrow stairs, hearing as we 
close our door Bob’s parting injunction to “ Get up 
early and be ready in time.” 


IN THE ^^B'AR DEESTRICT^' 


169 


In spite of hurry, however, it is long past noon be- 
fore we climb into Hamp’s old straw-carpeted wagon, 
bag and baggage, and are off for a night’s encampment 
at the “ Gulf.” 

Mrs. Crawford is distressingly confident that We shall 
take our death of cold, while a friendly comforter as- 
sures us “ the wild-cats will eat us,” or “ the bears chase 
us off their territory.” 

Hamp is to furnish provisions of the same kind he 
furnishes for the hunters, and we are as yet blissfully 
ignorant as to the nature of our rations. 

“Is it not a charmingly romantic prospect?” asks 
Lincoln, as we set out through the sweet, pine-scented 
woods. 

“ I will tell you more about it to-morrow, if the bears 
do not make a meal of us to-night,” says his mother. 

“ Tell me about the ‘prospect’ of a thing that is past? 
Mother, thinking of bruin seems to have muddled your 
brain,” he replies ; and we all join in the laugh raised 
at the little mother’s expense. 

Our stay in the mountains around Clarktown is draw- 
ing to a close. We are inclined to doubt we shall find 
another stopping-place so pleasant, so free from society 
regulations, so wild and woody and beautiful. We have 
climbed the heights and explored the hollows ; we have 
sung love-songs to the wild-flowers hiding in the heart 
of the forests, and dreamed dreams under the birch and 
chestnut shade, frightening the wild deer from his 
covert under the holly- and hemlock-bushes, or the 
rabbit from his hiding-place among the scented hedges ; 
we have robbed the forest of its wealth of crimson 
azaleas, and pale white or blue hydrangeas ; we have 
stripped the gray rocks and damp coves of their dress- 
ing of spider-wort, and ironweed, and velvet moss. But 


170 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

it is over ; our depredations are suspended for a time ; 
the forest around Clarktown can take on new verdure 
while we seek other scenes. 

When the afternoon sun throws the first long slant- 
ing dart into the shadow-haunted coves, we are bowl- 
ing over the mountains in the great lumbering wagon, 
half buried in the fresh straw, singing and shouting en 
route to the “ Gulf.” 

The sun has delivered both mountain and cove to the 
shadows again when we draw up and unload upon the 
flat, sandy, beach-like banks of the Caney Fork. 

It is a wild, weird spot, which seems to have trans- 
ferred some of its rugged magnificence and reckless 
strength to the bold, fretful torrent, breaking through 
the mountains with an angry rush and a mad swirl, 
bursting bond and fetter and obstruction in its path- 
way down the mountain. 

The waters seethe and bubble and dance, or flash in 
the sunlight, or roar under the cliffs ; or sometimes, 
leaving their bed and dashing madly against a protrud- 
ing rock, throw a white sea of foam upon their helpless 
foe ; every dash wearing away the soft, sandy substance. 

High up beyond reach of the fretful toss of the water 
the bluff bends into a stately, arched hall-way, white and 
gleaming, like the chalk cliffs of England. 

The river flowing through has, by continual tossing 
and fretting and deluging, worn away the lower bluffs, 
and scooped a magnificent passage-way under the over- 
hanging rocks, and cleared at the same time a broad, 
white sand beach. Upon this beach we pitch our tents ; 
or, rather, appropriate the tent left by the hunters who 
constantly come here for bear-meat. It consists of a 
rude shed thrown up in frightful proximity to the 
uncivilized stream hissing and roaring at our feet. 


'1 


IN THE ^^B'AR DEESTRICT.” 


171 


Above us the great bluffs, cro^wned with pines and 
rank cedars, which, when the wind rises in the moun- 
tains, bend over and brush their tops against the trees 
of the opposing bluff. But when nature is still we can 
see the blue sky, a narrow span of azure, between the 
dark gray walls towering heavenward. The river 
roars at our feet, the gray wall shuts us in ; wild and 
magnificently grand. We stand breathless and enrap- 
tured amid the rugged royalty. 

“ I don’t blame the bears for their fondness for this 
place,” says Bob. “ Its wildness offers a magnificent 
refuge ; only the real hunters care to follow them here. 
See ?” pointing down the bank, “ there’s a raft they 
have left ; suppose we have a ride.” 

Mrs. Courtney vetoes this move, on the ground that 
we will be perfectly helpless and at the mercy of the 
swift, angry stream. 

“Mow, mother,” cries Lincoln, “remember the fate 
of the fellow who refused to join the hunters, and was 
afraid to try the sea : 

“ ‘ The ship sailed safely over the sea, 

The hunters came from the chase in glee ; 

But the town that was built upon a rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake’s shock.’ 

“ Pull out the raft, Hamp ; we are going to float half 
a mile down the river. Mother, be sure we find supper 
waiting when we return ; that is the proper manner in 
which to treat adventurers. Father, will you go with 
us ?” 

“ Excuse me, if you please,” says the major. “ If you 
young folks are bent upon destruction, why, I suppose 
you will rush upon it ; but please leave me out of your 
calculations.” 


172 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Lincoln stoops without a word, and writes something 
upon the sand. 

“ "What are you doing ?” asks the major. 

“Eecording a miracle,” is the answer. ‘‘You have 
expressed a desire to be excused from the ‘ calculation’ 
act.” 

At this moment Hamp calls, and we run otf to inves- 
tigate the raft. 

“ Pull her out,” calls Bob ; and the major sends after 
us a parting injunction to make our wills, deposit our 
jewelry, say our prayers, and look out for snags. 

Hamp launches our doubtful-looking vessel, and we 
prepare to embark. The angry water gives a jubilant 
roar as it closes about the sides of our craft, and be- 
fore we know it snatches the management from our 
hands, drags the luckless raft into the fierce current, 
whirls her in a mad swing,* then dashes her upon a rock, 
and the dissevered timbers drift helplessly down the 
river. 

The major laughs aloud at our discomfiture, and ad- 
vises us to wade in after her. But while we stand con- 
templating our ill luck and lamenting our disappoint- 
ment, a horn winding a long, musical call comes floating 
down the river. 

“ Hunters !” cries Hamp, as a raft comes round a dis- 
tant bent of the stream. We scream and shout and 
wave our hands and handkerchiefs, while the raft, pro- 
pelled by the strong, swift current, drifts rapidly 
toward us, a shadow upon the darkening water. In 
the twilight, that comes too early in the bluff-sheltered 
gulch, we can see the two forms upon the logs, aqd as 
they come still nearer we repeat our shouts and signal 
them to take us on. 

“ Tried the old raft, did yer ?” says one, a tall young 


IN THE DEESTRICT” . 173 

hunter, as with a dexterous pull they land their vessel 
and take us aboard. 

“ Tried, and found her wanting,” Lincoln says. 

Waal, I reckon,” exclaims the other and older 
hunter. “ She’s been laid up nigh six month, an’ 
’twa’nt a mighty peart one to start with.” 

“ That’s a true word,” declares the mate ; “ she never 
was no good fur the water. Be you-uns a-travellin ?” 

Robert explains that we are merely upon a pleasure- 
trip, and would spend the night in the “ Gulf” 

And then the craft drifts down-stream with four 
passengers added to her crew. 

Night closes in rapidly in the gulch. The water is 
already black beneath us, save for the few starry spikes 
reflected from the blue strip visible through the narrow 
opening above. 

The days are short the year round in this wild re- 
treat. The sun finds it a difficult task to force his rays 
under the great hanging cliffs, so that sometimes, when 
the clouds are heavy, the shadows hover all day along 
the banks of the wild mountain river. 

There is no moon yet, and we cannot see the streams 
bounding with a whirligig roar to add their strength 
to the torrent of the Caney Fork. 

“ This air the meetin’-place fur the waters,” the 
mountaineers tell us. “They holds a camp-meetin’ 
when they gits to the Caney Fork, an’ goes a-shoutin’ 
on together, — a sort o’ singin’ glory songs in the wil- 
derness they waters.” 

What a poetic thought the unskilled tongue has 
dropped ! 

As we drift down-stream the river loses its savage 
aspect ; the mountains draw back from their determina- 
tion to shut out the upper world ; the broad bed of the 
15 * 


174 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

stream shines clear and star-studded in the early night. 
The flow of the water no longer carries a threat, and 
the mountain streams no longer sound a war-dance as 
they bound into the deep, swift flow of the river. 

“Singing their glory songs!” — the swift-speeding 
waters, — “ singing their glory songs in the wilderness.” 

As the raft shoots swiftly down-stream Blanche’s 
voice breaks into a song, in which we all join, making 
the woods echo with our merriment. 

Once a wild, startled scream sounds from a neigh- 
boring bank, and Blanche and I draw closer together, 
trembling with fear. 

“ Jest a catamount,” our pilot explains ; “ the Gulf’s 
fairly ’live with ’em.” 

Soon our barge grates upon the sand, and we take 
advantage of the stop to come ashore, and bidding the 
raftsmen good-night, we wend our way back to camp. 

The glow from the Are throws a ruddy gleam across 
the dark bosom of the river, as the blaze leaps up and il- 
lumines the space upon which our friends are gathered. 

As we draw nearer we see their forms, flitting like 
shadows, between the glow and us. 

Hamp looks like a red man of the forest as he stoops 
upon one knee and turns a spit before the blaze, his 
face aglow with the red light as now and then he bends 
forward and stirs the coals afresh. 

“ He is broiling the bacon,” says Eobert. “ Isn’t the 
odor of it appetizing ? Ladies, we have a treat in store.” 

We hasten to lend our aid to the preparations for 
supper. As we come within the red light of the fire 
the scene becomes even more romantic ; the odor of the 
crisp, brown bacon Hamp is arranging in thin slices 
between the small corn-meal pones does not detract in 
the least from the romance. 


IN THE DEESTEICT.*’ 


175 


“Isn’t it splendid?” cries Blanche; and, declaring it 
could not be surpassed, we gather round the great 
cheering blaze and have our supper, — corn bread, bacon, 
and black coffee; but no banquet spread in fashion’s 
balls was ever half so good. 

No nectar passed on old Olympus could be so deli- 
cious as the black coffee steaming in the smoked pot, 
as Hamp sets it back upon the coals “ to keep warm.” 

“I call it first-class,” says the major, passing his re- 
maining slice of bread for “ another bit of the bacon.’’ 
“ Fare like this would increase a man’s avoirdupois four 
per cent, in as many daj'S.” 

“ Then I congratulate you on being unable to secure 
the healthful fare,” says Lincoln, critically contempla- 
ting the two hundred pound weight deposited upon a 
log, successfully disposing of corn bread and bacon. 

Supper over, we gather around the fire to tell stories 
of the “b’ar bunts” that have been in the “ deestrict,” 
and crack jokes and sing songs until late into the 
night. Then Hamp dravvs the wagon under the shed, 
and brings to light the pillows and blankets stowed 
away under the straw. The men are soon fast asleep 
in the blankets before the camp-fire, and we are safely 
tucked into the straw-cushioned wagon. 

Through the narrow opening away up beyond the 
bluffs, the faint, far-off stars are shining. The blaze 
from the fire flickers, and throws fantastic shapes upon 
the river’s breast ; the wind rises and tosses the dark 
pines until their tops almost span the narrow aperture 
above us. The river thunders a wild wail to the silent 
shore. 

Then the stars fade and the darkness shrouds all. 
Something stirs in the shadow beyond the fire’s glow, 
creeps stealthily nearer, and then with a frightened 


176 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


scream disappears in the darkness. A wild-cat has 
scented our supper. 

The gloom deepens in the gulch and upon the river ; 
an hour, another, and the shimmer of dawn trembles 
above the cliffs and peers into the shadow-haunted 
gulch ; and then, with the dawn to watch and the river 
to lull, I fall asleep. 


CHAPTEK XVI. 

NEW SCENES. 

“ Each mountain gives an altar birth, 

And has a shrine to worship given ; 

Each breeze that rises from the earth 
Is loaded with a song of heaven.” 

Down from the mountain, a day’s rest, and we are 
again ready to set out upon our travels. 

Mrs. Crawford protests against the Sunday travel, 
but we are too many for her, and so the Sabbath morn- 
ing finds us preparing to visit a different spur of the 
mountains. 

“Lincoln,” says the little woman, “ examine the gear 
and the springs ; I am always apprehensive of accidents 
to people who wilfully desecrate the Sabbath.” 

“ The gear is new and the carriage the best the town 
affords, mother,” he replies, “ so you may lay aside your 
presentiments and quiet your conscience, for you will 
soon forget everything but the wild witchery of the 
country through which we are to pass. Miss Court- 
ney and I claim the saddle-horses ; the carriage only 
seats four, so Courtney is to be driver. And having 


NEW SCENES. 177 

twenty miles to travel before night, I suggest we start 
if we expect to do any sight-seeing to-day.” 

Acting upon the suggestion, we are soon on the road 
again ; our mode of travelling decidedly an improve- 
ment, Mrs. Crawford declares, upon the straw-cush- 
ioned wagon. For myself, I doubt we shall find a 
pleasanter leaf in our chapter of summer events than 
the page given to Clarktown. 

The Sabbath stillness rests upon the valley ; nature 
is glad, and sunny, and good. Bob is right : “ There is 
no more acceptable offering to God than love for His 
handiwork.” 

Broad, beautiful, and free as when fresh from the 
Master’s hand, we find it as we pass, to the ringing of 
church-bells, into the bosom of Hickory Yalley. 

For several miles we ride through the level country, 
stopping to admire the various charms with which the 
valley is adorned. Sometimes our road lying in the 
broad, unbroken plain, sometimes winding under the 
shadow of the Milksick Mountain, whose summit rises 
skyward with all the grandeur and boldness of the 
surrounding peaks; as if no curse rested upon it to 
forbid habitation, and poison the hardy and vigorous 
vegetation which thrusts its root into the accursed 
boundary. 

Wo draw up beside the tall fence set to guard the 
enclosure, and note how strong and fresh the verdure 
growing within ; yet no cattle browse and no human 
habitation is to be seen within the deadly limits of the 
Milksick Mountain. 

Woe to the hand that lowers the protecting gap, 
and thrice woe to the cattle which find their pasturage 
within it. 

“Bewitched,” the ignorant say; “Cursed,” “Min- 
m 


178 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

eral,” “ Chemical action,” say the baffled scientists, 
while the unsolved mystery remains. 

“ Unclean !” “ Unclean !” the old curse-cry of the 
Judean leper, is written upon the lonely point, shut off 
from humanity, yet wearing its curse proudly, since na- 
ture refuses to form her mountains humble. 

Turning where the road leaves the base of the smit- 
ten giant, we come into the more pleasant farm-lands of 
the valley. The cornfields are rustling and waving with 
the promising harvest. The drowsy tinkle of cow-bells, 
the lowing of herd, and the bleating of sheep feeding 
in the meadow-lands, come to us through the Sabbath 
silence; and over all, the winds, from the haunts of the 
wild-flowers, come hurrying with their fragrance. 

“ Crowds of bees are giddy with clover. 

Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, 

Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.” 

Eesting under a gigantic oak, Lincoln and I watch 
for a moment the changeful beauty before us. A 
shadow-cloud floats dreamily over the meadow at our 
feet; the sheep lift their heads from the long grass- 
blades and call to the young lambs that have strayed 
too far from the mother eye. 

“ Come,” says Lincoln, “ the carriage is out of sight.” 
And we leave the sunny valley behind us and take our 
way toward the mountains, already seeming to beckon 
us to their deep forests and wild glens and sunny slopes. 

We leave the wagon -road and follow a narrow trail 
farther up, from which we look upon the far-away 
valley, the inviting mountains, the zigzag road winding 
below, along which Eobert is carefully guiding the car- 
riage. Mile after mile we follow the uncertain trail, 
sometimes pausing to catch the effect of the sunlight 


NEW SCENES. 


m 

upon the changeful landscape, sometimes pausing to 
drink in the glorious majesty of the blue peaks holding 
familiar intercourse with the condescending clouds, then 
hurrying on until we overtake the carriage; at last we 
near the valley of the Caney Fork. 

“ I think I can catch the sound of water,” I exclaim, 
and we check our horses to listen. Sure enough, the 
dash of the turbulent stream can be distinctly heard 
to our left, sullen and threatening, as if some obstacle 
had suddenly planted itself in the river’s path. 

We follow the sound to the very brink of the preci- 
pice, where the mountain torrent, having burst its way 
through glen and gorge, froths and frets among the grim 
rocks in a mad effort to uproot them, as gathering for a 
desperate charge, the tide hurls its strength upon its 
firm-seated foe, to burst at last in a mist of beaten foam. 

Farther down where the torrent has spent its 
strength, the deep, lonely water sounds a minor thren- 
ody to the pitying loneliness ; and farther down the sun- 
light and wild-flowers margin the level banks, and the 
happy stream goes singing on until the rocks again 
attempt to turn her course. 

We follow the bank until we stand beside the deep, 
still crossing. 

“ The old mythological Lethe flowing around the bor- 
ders of Elysium ; would you not like to try the anti- 
dote for past memories ?” I ask of Lincoln. 

“Is there anjThing in your past which craves the 
Lethean draught ?” Yankee-like, he answers my ques- 
tion with another. 

“ JSTothing,” I answer ; “ either my life lies before me, 
or else it promises to be very prosy ; there has been no 
discord in the music so fiir.” 

“Is ‘discord’ necessary to prevent dulness?” he asks. 


180 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ To prevent monotony, certainly,” I rei^ly. “ Yonder 
comes the carriage.” 

“Suppose we cross before it gets here; are you 
afraid ?” he says, and I remind him of my agreement 
to renounce fear. 

“ Lift your skirt, then,” he says ; “ the stream is deep 
and not always fordable. The carriage is going over in 
the ferry, I see. Wait a moment and I will ride in first.” 

For answer I laugh, touch my horse with the whip, 
and am in mid-stream before he fullj^ understands. 

He is at my side in a moment, saying, “ I am tempted 
to believe you are thirsting for Lethean forgetfulness 
in reality. This river is not always fordable, and we 
could have easily crossed in the ferry.” 

“ I do not propose paying toll to Charon when I can 
cross alone,” I reply, dropping the rein on the animal’s 
neck that he may drink, and turning my face toward 
the sweep of the water, broad and blue and flecked 
with sunlight, as the rays flit through the shifting 
birch-bows along the bank to play hide-and-seek with 
the ripples. Before us the rugged steeps, the foot-hills of 
the Cumberlands ; around us the water, dancing with 
sunlight where the ripples play around the boat, slowly 
crossing the river ; I can feel the soft splash of spray as 
the water daintily touches my feet and falls back. 

“ Is it not lovely ?” I exclaim ; and my companion 
answers, — 

“You should see the mountains of the West.” 

And then our friends, who have reached the other 
side, call to us, and we push on through the clear blue 
water, through which we can see the pink-white peb- 
bles encrusted in the broad, hard bed. The shimmer 
of sunshine coquettishly touches the mountain-tops, the 
wind lightly stirs the birch-boughs and ruflies the flow 


NEW SCENES. 


181 


of the river. I pause upon the farther hank and look 
back. The towering bluifs, the silver river, the distant 
blue peaks ; I gaze entranced, bewildered, at the silent 
magnificence until my companion says, — 

“ Do you admire the country so much ?” 

For answer I wave my hand tow^ard the proud, 
fretting river, and the silent, majestic mountains. 

“ It is my native land ; God made it. It is beautiful, 
and I love it.” 

And then we slowly follow the carriage up the ascent 
until we again reach the level country ; then we lightly 
touch the horses with the whip. As we pass the car- 
riage, Bob calls to us that a girth is broken, and we 
halt while my cavalier investigates the matter, to find 
that though not broken the girth is none too reliable. 

“How I envy you that ride!” says Blanche, as we 
wait beside the carriage, and I. offer to exchange places. 

“Hot by any means,” she replies. “ Your goodness 
tempts me, I admit, but fortunately I have sufficient 
regard for my ” 

She pauses, and Lincoln finishes the sentence, — 
“ Back.” 

“ Exactly,” she replies, with a laugh ; then turning to 
Hobert, says, — 

“We are content as we are, are we not?” And he 
answers, — 

“ I am wonderfully satisfied with the present ar- 
rangement.” 

I remember the words long after we have left the 
carriage behind us, — “ I am wonderfully satisfied.” I do 
not wonder one should find the road pleasant that is 
travelled in company with her, though it lead up the 
mountain ; the only fear is the roads may diverge ; 
content is unreliable. 


16 


182 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“Miss Courtney, are you dreaming?” asks Lincoln, 
as we ride silently side by side for half an hour. 

“Mo,” I reply; “I was thinking.” 

’ “ Indeed ?” he exclaims. “ I was not aware your sex 
ever indulged in masculine amusement. Be advised ; 
thinking will only serve to make you less gentle, less 
simple, therefore less womanly. And, between us, the 
unpopular amusement breeds wrinkles and is the fore- 
runner of gray hairs, therefore to be shunned. Be 
happy, and, above all, be thoughtless and silly, if you 
would be a feminine success.” 

I make no answer, and after a moment he says, — 

“ Thinking still ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Shall I otfer the customary penny ?” 

“Mot worth it,” I answer. “I was only thinking 
you are an idiot.” 

He laughs, not the least disturbed by the compliment, 
and calls my attention to the changed appearance of 
the country through which we are passing. 

The wild beauty of the unbroken wilderness lies be- 
hind us ; pleasant homes and fair cultivation argue that 
we are entering the valley of Cane Creek. We have 
crossed the broad, noisy, and sometimes deep current a 
half-dozen times since we struck the level. 

“ Take care,” cries Lincoln, as we again gallop near 
the bank of the stream. “ Your horse does not show 
a decided familiarity with saw-mills. Pull the ‘ critter’ 
this way; he is afraid of that fierce-looking ma- 
chinery.” 

“ He is too late showing fear,” I reply ; “ this is at 
least the tenth mill of the kind we have passed, not to 
mention sugar-mills and distilleries. See what a row 
of shacks, — business must be thriving on Cane Creek.” 


NEW SCENES. 


183 


“ A thriving settlement generally, I should say,” he 
replies, pointing with his whip toward a pretty strip 
of country skirting the banks of the creek, and rising 
gracefully into a sunny, fertile slope, where hundreds 
of sheep are grazing. 

“ Bare grassy slopes where kids are tethered, 

Bound valleys like nests all ferny lined ; 

Bound hills with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 

Swell high in their freckled robes behind.” 

“ And see,” he continues, the boy coming down the 
hill with the oxen ; the wagon, you see, is at the foot ; 
and yonder to our right, behind a miniature forest, is 
the humble farm-house. The folks are evidently going 
to meeting. Listen ! the boy is singing.” 

“ The river is a-rollin’, the river is a-rollin’. 

Oh, the river is a-rollin’, hut we’ll all git home ; 

Bor we all air a-toilin’, we all air a-toilin’. 

Yes, we all air a-toilin’, fur the kingdom come.” 

‘^A beautiful road to the kingdom, certainly,” says 
Lincoln. “ That must be the meeting-house we passed 
half a mile back, — the little log house in the grove of 
chestnuts, you remember?” 

Yes, I remember, and I remember also that we have 
crossed this same creek a number of times. “ There it 
is again,” I exclaim, pointing to the winding, silver-like 
thread before us. 

Deeper at this crossing, too,” says Lincoln, as we 
come nearer to the edge of the still, blue water. 

I glance across to the other side and exclaim, — 

“ Mr. Crawford, you may have the pleasure of calling 
me a coward in truth this time, if that,” pointing across- 
stream, “ is the road we are to travel.” 


184 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ Shall we turn back, or wait for the carriage ?” he 
asks. “It does look formidable, but I am confident 
Blanche will exchange places with you if you are afraid 
to climb it horseback.” 

“ Surely there is some other route,” I insist. “ That 
road is almost perpendicular, and smooth as glass.” 

For a moment he looks at me in a queer, half-amused 
way, then says, — 

“ You are more than half coward, after all. If I lead 
the way you cannot refuse to follow ; that would be un- 
pardonable cowardice.” 

“‘That air a true word,’” I reply, wdth a laugh; 
“ but you cannot lead me. I will go with you, butY’ll 
not follow.” 

Instead of going on, however, he checks his horse, 
looks at me a moment, and breaks into a loud laugh. 
Vainly do I endeavor to discover wherein I have erred 
to so excite his mirth ; he laughs until the tears stand 
in his eyes and the blood seems about to burst from 
the veins upon his temple. 

Then I grow angry, and inform him that “ I fail to 
see the joke.” At which he only laughs the louder, 
calls me an ignoramus, and signals Bob to stop as the 
carriage comes up, and informs the crowd that I am 
bent upon climbing the chute by which the logs are 
conveyed to the creek. 

They all laugh at my ignorance, of course; and, 
giving my horse an angry cut, I ride swiftly on to hide 
the tears that spring to my eyes. 

The offender follows in hot pursuit, and is soon 
rapidly apologizing, and explaining, and laughing, in a 
breath, until, unable longer to control my indignation, 
I drop my face upon my hand and burst into tears. 

I do not hear the real repentance he is pouring into 


NE W SCENES. 185 

my ear ; I only hear the laugh raised at my expense, 
and only see myself the object of ridicule. 

I shake off, angrily, the hand he lays upon my arm, 
and exclaim, — 

“ Let me alone ; I despise you !” 

“ No, you do not,” he replies ; “ you are only angry. 
“ Look up, and let^s make friends.” 

Again his hand is upon my arm as we ride slowly 
side by side, and again I shake it off. 

“ I will not make friends with you,” I exclaim. “ You 
have done nothing but ridicule and spoil my pleasure 
since the day I met you ; and I hate you.” 

He pulls his horse farther from mine, and offers no 
other apology, saying only, — 

“ I regret it if I have indeed detracted from your en- 
joyment ; I assure you it was not intentional. I have 
been vain enough to suppose I could add something to 
your pleasure, and really have attempted to do so ; the 
failure is mortifying.” 

Then, just as he intends, I see how ungrateful I am. 
He has studied my pleasure somewhat, always planning 
the excursion I am sure to like, and arranging that I 
may have a horse, and numerous trifles which go to 
make a pleasant summor. 

Moodily we ride along over the rocky, dangerous 
road. The thrifty and pleasant country gives place 
again to the wild mountain pass ; deep ravines and 
brier-bedded gorges yawn on either side the road, which 
sometimes lies along the verge of a mighty precipice, 
and now under the shadow of a tall cliff* overlooking a 
frightful gorge. There is barely passage-way for the 
two horses between the wall of rock upon our right 
and the descent upon our left ; a slip, a false step, might 
be fatal. It is a wildly magnificent place. If he would 
16 * 


186 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

only say something, that I might give expression to my 
thoughts 1 hut the figure at my side rides silently on 
over the rocky climb, not seeming to notice that the 
road upon my left lies frightfully near the edge of the 
precipice, while he rides under the shadow of the cliff 
upon the other side. 

While I ride slowly along thinking carelessly of these 
things, suddenly I feel the slightest slip of my saddle ; 
another, and I have only time to reach quickly for the 
pommel of his and gasp, — 

“ My saddle is turning.” 

Quickly enough the foolish anger vanishes as he 
jerks in his horse, and, throwing his arm around my 
waist, says, — 

Be easy, and don’t get excited. I will not let you 
fall.” Then slipping from his saddle, he is quickly at 
my side, lifting me safely to the ground, and laughing 
merrily while he tightens the unreliable girth. 

When all is in order again he turns to me, — 

“ I was fearfully frightened when I saw you so near 
the brink of this bluff ; how did I happen to allow you 
to ride on the dangerous side ?” 

“ You forgot me,” I reply ; and he seems for a mo- 
ment tempted to deny the charge. Instead, however, 
he says, — 

“ Will you try it again ?” and as I hesitate, “ I am 
not teasing this time; it is dangerous. Suppose we 
walk to the foot of the steep. We must have taken 
the wrong road.” 

“We didn’t come by the chute, did we?” I ask, and 
we both laugh, and once more the hatchet is buried. 

As he lifts me again to the saddle, I ask, — 

“Do you know I almost believe you saved my 
life?” 


NEW SCENES. 


187 


“ I know I lead you into some very dangerous 
places,” he replies. “You owe me several grudges, 
Miss Courtne}^.” 

“ I know it,” is my answer. “ I shall have a settle- 
ment before the summer ends.” 

“ Oh 1” he laughs, “ my account against you will fully 
balance the ills wdth which I am charged ; the interest 
is accumulating at a furious rate. Hush !” 

We are passing another modest little meeting-house, 
and wo lower our voices that we may not disturb the 
worshippers within. As we pass on they begin to sing, 
and the restful, trusting old hymn floating up- from the 
lonely mountain-side seems a sort of incense struggling 
from the altar of “ God’s first temples” toward the 
great white throne. 

“A glorious place to offer sacrifices,” says Lincoln, 
when I give expression to my thought. “ To which 
of the gods shall we offer?” 

“ I should say Apollo,” I reply. “ Surely the moun- 
tains are a reflection of old Delos’ rapture when the 
Sun-god first bounded into the world.” 

“ I should have agreed with you half an hour since, 
but the scene has changed,” he says. “ Do you observe 
that we are about to enter a vault-like passage ? Why, 
the opening seems to have been chiselled through the 
very heart of the mountain.” 

Through the hall-like opening we slowly take our 
way, riding leisurely in order to better admire the 
strangely perfect wildness. The sheer walls rising upon 
either side are cold and bare and dark, like the secret 
passage to some unholy prison, or the sepulchral hall of 
an underground castle-way. 

The verdure grows too rank to be attractive in the 
damp, sunless vault. The tops of the slimmest, 


188 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

straigbtest trees fall far short of the dizzy rim of the 
sandstone cliff. 

A dark stream washes the base of the walls, flowing 
noiselessly down the passage. 

“ Miss Courtney,” says Lincoln, “ it would not be ap- 
propriate to offer sacrifices to Apollo at the entrance 
to Erebus. I should call that stream Acheron, only 
that I am sure it is Styx, for we have crossed it nine 
times, and the gloom overshadowing the realm through 
which we are passing finally settles aU doubt. I 
should offer my sacrifice to Pluto.” 

“And we have neglected the necessary obolus,” I 
reply. “ Who knows but old Charon will leave us to 
wander here the prescribed one hundred years ? How 
warm it is in this dungeon ! It feels as if we might be 
nearing the abode of old Aides in reality.” 

“ On the contrary, I think we are nearing the end 
of this,” he says. “ Look before you j can you not 
see the sky where there is an opening in the foliage ?” 

“Yes,” I reply; “ but I see no sign of the carriage. 
I wonder if we are lost again ?” 

“ Ho,” he replies ; “ I am following the tracks.” 

Our road gradually loses its rugged wildness again ; 
we emerge from the Plutonian kingdom into the broad 
flood of sunlight, stopping to catch a breath of the moun- 
tain breeze which comes to fan our cheeks once more. 

“Another saw-mill!” I exclaim. “ The lumber inter- 
est is certainly growing.” 

“ Miss Courtney,” says Lincoln, “ do the Southern 
people use tubs and furaaces and worms in the running 
of their saw-mills? Ho you saw corn? Horth wo 
should call that a still, and a very poor one at that.” 

I laugh and acknowledge the corn, and for a while we 
ride on in silence. 


V 


UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. 189 

IN'ature has taken advantage of the afternoon sun- 
Bhine and drowsiness for a nap. Golden gleams trem- 
ble upon the feathery tree-tops, and slanting spikes of 
amber dart through the quivering shadows cast by the 
clustering boughs, or rest like a bridal benediction in 
the white umbels of the wild-flowers growing along the 
mountain-side. The wilderness has blossomed and 
brought forth beauty j nature is praising the Creator 
through His works. 

Slowly we descend, and join our friends at the pass 
of the mountains. 


CHAPTEE XYII. 

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. 

“ There’s a dance of leayes in that aspen bower, 

There’s a glitter of winds in that beechen tree, 

There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, 

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.” 

“ Wish any help ?” 

‘‘ Yes, Crawford ; if you will get that sack of corn 
under the seat of the buggy and empty it into that 
trough, while I unhitch the horses, I will be under ob- 
ligations. We will give the poor beasts a rest and a 
lunch while we are having ours. They have certainly 
earned it, poor things.” 

Eobert relieves the horses of their heavy gear, while 
Lincoln empties the noon meal in the trough which 
we find by the side of the mill where we stop for our 
lunch. It was a clever thought which prompted the 
erecting of the grist-mill at the very pass of this green 
old mountain. A bold spring issues from the rocks 


190 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

above, and is conducted to the mill through troughs 
and gutters that are formed of the longest poplars and 
stanchest oaks. A branch trough carries a slender 
current into the great scoop which had once been a 
chestnut-oak, but is now doing duty as a spring-house. 
Some half-dozen buckets are deposited in the rude but 
ample basin, and dim ideas of yellow cream and yellower 
butter come floating before us. A cabin stands at the 
foot of the mountain. Yes, it was a clever thought 
which prompted the building of the mill at this spot. 
Going which way he will, the traveller is sure to feel 
the need of rest before climbing the mountain on either 
side. We spread our rugs upon the smooth rocks, throw 
aside our hats, and prepare for the noonday rest. 

“ I should like to live in the mountains always,” 
says Blanche, as she seats herself upon the rug. 

“Why?” I ask. 

“ They are near the sky, and somehow one feels 
purer and freer up here. There is breathing-room, 
room to stretch the limbs and air the mind. 

“ ‘ I drop my cloak, 

Unclasp my girdle, loose the hand that ties 
My hair ; — now could I but unloose my soul I 
We are sepulchred alive in this close world, 

And want more room I’ ” 

“ Are you so awfully crowded, Blanche ?” asks Lin- 
coln. “ You shouldn’t rave at the world ; it argues one 
defeated when he adopts cynicism, and slanders the old, 
faithful, trustful, bankrupt world, — 

« “ ‘ The world’s hard pressed : 

The sweat of labor in the early curse 
Has (turning acrid in six thousand years) 

Become the sweat of torture.’ 


UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. 191 

“ I never hear a man rail at the world but I think he 
has abused it, and, if you will pardon the school-boy 
expression, ‘the world’s on top.’ Mother, hither is 
calling you to come to him ; he has found a mare’s nest, 
doubtless, among those rocks. Miss Courtney, what 
do you think of this old rolling-stone upon which we 
are all riding to eternity?” 

“ I think it by far the best world I have yet found.” 

“ Be careful you haven’t cause to always think so,” 
he says, tossing a pebble into the miniature fall which 
turns the mill-wheel. After a short silence he turns to 
Eobert. 

“ Courtney, are you asleep ?” 

“ Mo, sir,” says Eobert. “ I am watching Mrs. Craw- 
ford ” 

“ Dangerous employment, my friend,” says Lincoln. 
“Mever watch the movements of another man’s wife ; 
the caution may save the payment of a life insurance 
policy.” 

“ Lincoln, you are an idiot, a crank,” cries Blanche. 

“ Cranks turn the universe, my dear, as well as the 
cider-press,” he answers. “ I only offer a little sound 
advice, which our friend can accept or decline. You 
may keep an eye on a pretty girl, Courtney, until you 
are as blind as Bunyan ; you may squeeze her hand, — and 
her waist also, if you get a chance, — you may talk love 
by moonlight, and indulge in soft sweetness until your 
tongue turns to a sugar-mill ; but, the moment that girl 
takes another name, presto ! change I Hands off, 
tongues off, lips off! eyes another way. What if she 
does playfully hint of the days when you kissed her 
hand and talked nonsense! Those days are dead, and, 
unless you would follow them to the land of shadows, 
beware of the other man’s wife ! Stop your ears with 


192 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

wax, have your limbs lashed fast with thong and cord, 
ply your oar, and fly, oh, Ulysses, for the siren’s song 
is fatal.” 

Eobert laughs, — a loud, ringing laugh, which causes 
the occasion of the rhapsody to turn and look our way, 
as she gathers ferns and wild-flowers growing in the 
crannies of the rocks above us. Blanche lays her fin- 
gers upon the young philosopher’s pulse, and takes out 
her watch. 

“ Too rapid by half,” she says. “ Young man, your 
brain is seriously affected.” 

“ You are an average physician,” he says, “ but you 
neglected to look at my tongue.” 

“ I know it is unhinged without looking,” she says. 
‘‘ There is too much clatter.” 

“Wrong again; my malady is neither one of the 
tongue or brain; the pain is in the stomach. I am 
ravenously hungry.” 

This reminds us that we are all in a similar condition, 
and we are to prepare for lunch. 

“ Mr. Courtney,” says Blanche, “ if you and Lincoln 
will bring the basket from the carriage and spread the 
cloth, we will attend to the rest. In the mean time, I 
propose dipping my face in that Liliputian waterfall 
bounding so temptingly over the mossy rocks yonder.” 

She runs off to execute her threat; and when just 
about to dip the sunny head into the pellucid flow, 
something in the water attracts her attention, and she 
pauses', one hand supporting her body, as she kneels 
upon the soft, green earth, the other holding back 
carelessly the loose flowing hair. It seems only a 
natural part of the woodland scene when Lincoln, 
laying his hand on her shoulder, draws her away 
from the stream. 


UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. 193 

“ Narcissa,” he cries, “ have you become enamoured 
of your own loveliness ?” 

She laughs, shakes off his hand, and when she lifts 
the bright sunny head it is dripping with the cool 
mountain water. 

“ Come to dinner, Narcissa,” he says j “ but wait until 
I help to wring your ringlets.” 

He rubs a large linen handkerchief briskly over the 
damp curls, and then, seizing her hand, half drags her 
down the descent. 

“Where is mother?” he asks, as we stand waiting 
round the rustic board. “Father’s mare’s-nest must 
have developed into a gold mine, and he is engrossed 
in calculating the value of the treasure. Oh, Midas, 
Midas! the glittering yellow ore will fail to satisfy the 
craving of nature long before yonder sun shall sink 
behind the mountain. Please to look at my mother!” 

The exclamation is caused by seeing Mrs. Crawford, 
laden with ferns and wild-flowers, scrambling down the 
rocks, her black sunshade serving as a litter for the 
floral treasures. In the roughest, steepest places she 
never forgets or loses her hold upon the precious bur- 
den. Eobert hastens to her assistance, and soon she 
stands, panting, breathless, among us. 

“ Mother, have you forgotten your dignity, your fifty 
years, and your avoirdupois ?” said Lincoln. 

“ I suppose so, all but the avoirdupois,” she answers, 
dropping upon the rug. “ One gets young again on 
these mountains. Blanche, did you ever see such gor- 
geous ferns?” 

“ Often,” she replies. “ I was raised among them.” 

“Has that anything to do with your stature?” says 
Lincoln. “Long, sinewy, and graceful as ” 

A pickled cucumber, which chances to be the handi- 
I w 17 


194 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

est weapon at the moment, hurled at him, cuts short 
the comparison, while Mrs. Crawford continues to com- 
ment upon her treasures. 

“Why, just seel that frond measures at least one 
yard.” She holds up the long, wavy, plume-like beauty. 
“ I think that must be the Eoyal fern ; it certainly has 
a royal bearing. And here is the delicate maiden-hair, 
the best of all the many varieties. Lincoln, what is 
the botanical name ?” 

“ Mother,” he replies, “ I know but one word of the 
language at this moment, and that is the common Eng- 
lish word h-u-n-g-r-y.” 

“ You have spelled it correctly, my son, and I believe 
you are thoroughly able to practically define it. At 
any rate, I will give you an opportunity as quickly as 
I can bathe my hands and face. You shall not lack for 
assistance either ; I see your father coming now.” 

None are slow in proving our ability in practical 
defining, when once gathered about the lunch-table. 

“ Father, did you find a gold mine ?” asks Lincoln, 
between bites of the devilled ham and crackers he has 
under consideration. 

“No,” says the major, deliberately, as he deposits 
the contents of a sardine-box upon a slice of white 
bread, “I did not find gold, but there are numerous 
outcroppings of coal all over these mountains; and, 
unless I am mistaken, there is some iron under this 
rocky top.” 

“To be sure there is,” says Kobert. “Major, I am 
afraid you found one of the mineral springs with which 
the mountains abound, and in this way scented your 
iron.” 

They are interrupted by Lincoln, suddenly exclaim- 
ing,— 


UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. 195 


“ ‘ Maiden ! with the meek brown eyes, 

In whose orbs a shadow lies, 

Like the dusk in evening skies I 
***** 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 

"Where the brook and river meet, — 

"Womanhood, and childhood fleet.’ ” 

Following his glance, we see a girl of about fifteen 
summers, barefoot, bareheaded, her yellow hair banging 
upon her shoulders, her cheeks aglow with health and 
flushed with the race she has just had with the three 
lean fox-hounds panting at her side. She is standing 
ankle-deep in the narrow stream, her bare feet gleaming 
white in the moss which covers the rock upon which 
she stands. She seems to have at this moment observed 
us, and the expression of wonder in the large gray eyes 
testifies that curiosity outweighs timidity, as she pauses 
to inspect us. When she realizes that we are returning 
her gaze tenfold, she drops her eyes and steps from the 
rock to the pebbly bed of the stream, where, catching 
one of the smooth stones between her toes, she stands 
turning it in childish fashion, while the laughing brook 
bubbles around her slender ankles, striving vainly to 
liberate the imprisoned pebble. 

The hounds watch the proceeding gravely, restlessly, 
as if not exactly comprehending the sudden ending of the 
chase, and not quite satisfied as to the prolonged pause. 

While we are studying the lithe, graceful form and 
picturesque position, a woman comes to the open door 
of the cabin near by and calls, — 

“Laurinda? Laurinda ? Laurinda?” 

And ere we know it, the graceful little creature 
bounds away like a wild fawn and disappears behind 
the rocks, followed by the delighted dogs. 


196 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


Lincoln rubs his eyes. 

“ Was it a vision, a phantom, or a reality ?” 

“ I can hardly say,” declares Kobert ; “ but if it was 
a vision, it was the loveliest one ever vouchsafed to 
mortal.” 

“ Did she drop from the clouds ?” I ask. 

“ And disappeared the way she came, I think,” says 
Lincoln. 

“She looked like a wood-nymph standing there in 
the water,” declares Blanche. 

“ She looked more like a startled deer,” says Lincoln. 
“I wonder if these rocks are inhabited by such sprites?” 

“ Whatever her personal attractions may be, she cer- 
tainly is not overly obedient,” says Mrs. Crawford. 
“ Did you notice how she darted into that ivy screen 
when the woman called her ?” 

“We had no time to notice anything much before 
she was gone,” says Eobert. 

“ ‘ Laurinda,’ ” Lincoln repeats the name softly. 
“ ‘ Laurinda.’ How well it matches the graceful, wild 
owner! ‘Laurinda,’ — a laurel, a sweet wild-flower. I 
am glad the woman did not call her ‘ Marthy’ or ‘ Sally’ 
or ‘ Samanthy,’ but just ‘ Laurinda,’ — a laurel.” 

“ Young man, cork that bottle of olives, and help fold 
the table-cloth,” says Blanche, rapping him sharply 
upon the head with the spoon she holds. “ After that, 
you may take a cigar and lie under that chestnut-oak 
and dream of Laurinda exactly half an hour. You 
may see the golden head in the smoke-wreaths above 
your own, and admire, in your dream, the prettily- 
turned ankles; but just for thirty minutes, you under- 
stand. Mr. Courtney says we must begin to climb the 
mountain by half-past two at the latest, and it is now 
two.” 


O'ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 


197 


CHAPTEE XYIII. 

O’ER MOUNTAIN, O’ER FOREST. 

“ Rugged strength and radiant beauty, 

These were one in Nature’s plan.” 

‘'Four o’clock; we should be near the top,” says 
Major Crawford, consulting his watch. 

“So we are,” answers Eobert. “Just around that 
arching bluff ahead of us we strike the level, and then 
we follow the road until we reach my old hunting- 
ground near Cane Creek Falls. We will have about an 
hour to spare at the falls, and then get to Uncle Tom’s 
to supper.” 

Once more we have begun to climb, and four o’clock 
finds us more than ten miles from our noon encamp- 
ment,'^M route for Uncle Tom Pearson’s cabin on the 
mountain. 

“ I tell you,” says Mrs. Crawford, “ I feel as if we are 
imposing on your friend, — taking such an army upon 
him unexpectedly.” 

“ That is because you don’t^know him,” Bob replies. 
“ The last time I hunted here, ten years ago, I made 
Uncle Tom’s headquarters, and, while there, I was so 
unlucky as to break a limb, and was detained in the 
mountains a month, — sufficient time I assure you to 
learn something of the goodness of my host and his 
wife. Aunt Yin. Take care, Xell, you ride entirely too 
near the edge of these precipices, you make me nervous. 
Where is your cavalier ? Here, Sir Knight, leave off 
your dreaming and look to this daring young lady. Has 
17 * 


198 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

the mountain maid left so deep an impression that you 
forget everything else, and permit ladies intrusted to 
your keeping to stumble blindly over roads that for 
ruggedness might compare with Alpine nature, and 
come off victorious for the comparison ?” 

“Don’t!” cries Lincoln, who has indeed been dream- 
ing — who shall say of what? — while toiling up the 
mountain ; “ don’t, Courtney, don’t be feminine. First 
you are nervous, which is strictly feminine : the sole 
right to that malady belongs to the female creation ; 
as much a part of woman as the affection in her heart 
for her new bonnet. A man with nerves should bor- 
row the bonnet also, and be a woman. Then, you go 
into comparisons, which the whole civilized creation 
knows to be strictly feminine. Women judge by com- 
parison, marry by comparison, live, breathe, die by 
comparison with their neighbor’s mode of doing the 
same. — Ah, this is glorious!” 

We reach the sandy level of the mountain-top. Giv- 
ing our horses rein, we part company with the party 
in the carriage, and go flying through the wild pasture- 
land as gayly as if we had not climbed a mountain since 
sun-up. The white, glistening sand rises beneath the 
hurrying hoofs like silver dust, while before, the gleam- 
ing road, spanned now and then by a belt of sunshine, 
winds under the poplars and white-oak, a serpentine 
silver band girding the mountains. Upon the left, far 
as the eye can reach, herds of cattle and flocks of sheep 
are feeding; the afternoon silence is broken now and 
then by the lowing of kine, or the cry of a lamb lost 
among the tall meadow-grasses. 

“ It is difficult to realize one is on the mountain,” says 
Lincoln, as we check our speed to watch for the coming 
carriage. “ It is as level as if this were a valley.” 


O'ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 


199 


“We shall realize the elevation when we begin the 
descent,” I reply. “One never realizes anything until 
about to lose it.” 

“ Don’t moralize,” he entreats. “ Wait until the sun 
goes down, and the ‘ soft, mellow moon’ rises ; never talk 
sentiment in the broad, open daylight. Sentiment is 
soft itself, and will not bear the strong glare of sun- 
light ; it melts into melodramatic foolishness, hey ?” 

He rides close to my side and peeps under the broad 
brim of my hat. 

“ I am not aware that I am talking sentiment,” I 
retort, angrily. “ When I do undertake the ‘ melo- 
dramatic foolishness’ I shall certainly select an apprecia- 
tive audience, in which case you may expect the first 
invitation. ‘ Fools appreciate their own,’ you know.” 

“ Said like a philosopher,” he declares. “ Miss Court- 
ney, your fellow-sufferer will be prompt to respond to 
the summons. Be sure you find me ; though I do not 
doubt, in the least, your ability to do so. ‘ A rogue to 
catch a rogue,’ you understand.” Then, pointing toward 
a meadow upon the left, — “ Isn’t that pastoral peace to 
perfection ? Look !” 

“ I will not,” I reply, determined not to be insulted, 
called a fool, and then led into other channels before I 
can resent the rudeness. * 

“Oh, yes, you will,” he says. “You are a woman; 
don’t lose sight of that.” He takes the bridle, the horse 
stops, and he continues. “And curiosity is strictly 
womanly; pouting, also, is characteristic of the fair 
sex, hey? How, Miss Courtney, call up your Mother 
G-oose and tell me which of the nursery jingles will 
best illustrate the picture of that hearty herdsman fast 
asleep in the meadow-grass just beyond that line of 
poplars to your left.” 


200 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

Who could resist the temptation to look ? There he 
lies, stretched full length, his broad hat drawn upon his 
face, one arm bent beneath his head for a pillow, fast 
asleep, like a young giant in the sunshine, with the 
tall meadow-grasses waving about him ; lulled by the 
drowsy drone of the wild bee following the trail of a 
blossom hidden somewhere in the meadow world. The 
herds are feeding around him, and the tinkle of a bell, 
as the leader shakes his head in the effort to dodge the 
caress of the high grass, makes a slumbrous music which 
invites to dreamland. While we stand watching the 
picture, something in the wood beyond attracts their 
attention, and the entire herd, following the belled 
leader, lift their heads and rush toward the covert. 

“ The ‘ little Boy Blue fast asleep under the hay-cock’ 
had best be looking after his herds,” I suggest ; but 
Lincoln says, — 

“ That will not do : this shepherd is a giant. I 
rather think we have stumbled into the country of the 
Cyclops; see what gigantic limbs the great Polyphe- 
mus has.” 

“Did Mother Goose write mythology?” I ask. He 
makes a wry face, and before he can answer I say, — 

“I think we had best hurry on, for yonder comes 
the carriage. 'Kie giant will be awakened by the 
noise, and we shall all be exposed to the danger of the 
imprudent and daring Odysseus.” 

“ I am not the only one who confounds mythology,” 
Lincoln says. “Miss Courtney, Polyphemus was a 
shepherd, not a herdsman.” 

I point to a flock of sheep in an enclosure farther on. 

“And,” he continues, ignoring the gesture, “Odys- 
seus made good his escape from the Cyclops’ cave by 
clinging to a ram.” 


O'ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 


201 


“ All of which I knew before,” I reply. “ Come, it 
will be dark before we reach our destination ; there is 
the carriage, and Polyphemus is stirring.” 

The afternoon sun sends long rays athwart the 
meadow ; the cattle are lowing around the salt rocks 
in the low ground, the wild bees are hurrying in their 
afternoon stores ; the winds move slowly northward, 
laden heavily with southern fragrance; the mountain 
lifts its top so near the heaven that the intervening 
veil seems to part, and a sheen of celestial glory covers 
the upper peaks. For two miles we follow the road 
along the sandy level, and then, — 

“We will wait here under the shade until the car- 
riage again overtakes us,” says Lincoln. “ It must be 
here that we leave the road to go to the falls.” 

Willing enough to rest, I draw rein under the shade 
of an oak. Hew scenes lie before us ; the level pasture- 
lands are about to bo abandoned, and the mysteries of 
the wild country to our left are to be explored. Again 
the rosebay and ivy demand a footing, and right roy- 
ally maintain their claim ; holly and spruce-pine com- 
bine to crowd the space unclaimed by other usurpers 
of the mountain’s soil. 

“You Southern folks are a queer people,” says my 
companion, casting his eye over the road we have 
travelled. 

“Yes?” 

“ You travel the world over for grandeur, and it 
grows wild here at your very doors. You rush West 
for land when it runs to waste around you. You 
crowd the Horth in search of employment, when your 
own material waits for willing hands, — material for 
which the Horth has no match in all its breadth ; for- 
tunes, millions lie unclaimed hero in the very heart of 


202 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

a country that is either too blind to see, or too indolent 
to utilize. Why, if this mountain could be shipped, as 
it is, across the Ohio, these heights would be blooming 
almost as by magic.” 

“ Then we should thank the Lord for planting it 
deep,” I reply; “ otherwise it would have been shipped 
or hauled over long since. It is about all you have left 
us, and we have Providence to thank that the old river- 
girt, iron-seated mountain still guards the eastern pass 
to Tennessee. As for our ‘ignorance,’ well, you know 
it is not every one can ‘see himself as others see him,’ 
else egotism would now find itself confounded some- 
times.” 

“Now you are employing the feminine weapon, per- 
sonalism,” he replies ; and, as usual when the subject is 
unpleasant, he changes it. 

“ I suppose we might as well ‘ ’light,’ for it must be a 
bold steed that can break that jungle,” he says ; “ we 
will be forced to walk some before we see the falls.” 

He springs to the ground, throws his bridle over a 
stout young sapling, gives it a dextrous twist into the 
strong supple branches, and holds out his arms to me. 

I place one hand upon his shoulder, the other still upon 
the pommel of the saddle, and pause in the act of 
alighting. He looks up, our eyes meet ; his are very 
blue and deep and — something, I scarcely recognize 
the feeling behind the blue depths ere he, smiling, says, 
softly, “ Come,” and lifts me from the saddle. And 
then the carriage comes up, and in the confusion and 
merriment of alighting the incident is forgotten. ' 
When next my eyes seek his, they wear their usual 
expression. 

“ Blanche, are you afraid of snakes ?” 

“ Ask me if I am afraid of ‘ old Scratch,’ ” she replies. 


203 


O^ER MOUNTAIN, O’ER FOREST. 

as she stops, pushing aside the thick growth through 
which we are fighting our way, and peering cautiously 
into the shadowy path. 

“ My dear,” says Lincoln, holding the bush aside for 
her, “ that is the fourth time to-day I have noticed you 
lifting your hat to his Satanic majesty. Once he was 
timidly ‘ the old boy,’ then he was plain every-day ‘ old 
Satan,’ again he was only the ‘ bad man,’ now he is 
‘ old Scratch.’ Don’t do it ; politeness to the devil 
never amounts to anything; Just a waste of breath 
with you women.” 

“ I suppose you men never object to ‘ waste’ in that 
direction,” I retort. 

“It depends entirely upon whose waist it is,” he 
answers, saucily. “ Mother, are you suddenly stricken 
dumb ?” 

“JSTo,” says Mrs. Crawford, bent upon conquering a 
huge holly branch which bars her path, “I am not 
dumb. I merely supposed you had the monopoly of 
the conversation.” 

“ I retire,” he says. “ Courtney, open your battery ; 
father, speak ; talk, chatter, all of you ; ladies and 
gentlemen, I am silent from this moment; the floor is 
yours.” 

“ That is delightfully refreshing news,” says the 
major, “but I will wager a fortune you cannot keep 
quiet ten minutes. Courtney, 1 believe I hear the 
sound of falling water.” 

“Say, ‘catch the sound,’ fa ” 

“Silence!” cries Blanche; “you are under a vow.” 
Ho places a hand upon his lips. 

“Yes, that must be the fall,” says Eobert, as we 
emerge from our briery jungle and gather upon a 
large flat rock, and listen a moment to the soft musical 


204 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

plash of a fountain somewhere under the thick growth 
below us. 

“ There’s a path somewhere,” says Eobert, looking 
round. “ I remember we pitched our tent last fall 
just beyond that wood, and the path led through 
this tangle. Let me see; I have hunted along here 
often enough to know the route.” 

Lincoln is wildly gesticulating ; he seizes Eobert by 
the sleeve, but Bob shakes him off. He then jumps from 
the rock, grasps my arm, and pulls me after him ; I 
draw back indignantly, and he beckons frantically to 
Blanche, who is watching Eobert. The major does 
not see the effort to attract him, and Mrs. Crawford is 
coolly and provokingly unobservant of the schemes to 
catch her attention. At last the Yankee blood is up. 

“There’s the path!” he shouts; at which we break 
into loud laughter. 

“ One instant more of restraint would have added a 
corpse to our party,” says Blanche, between the bursts 
of merriment. 

“ There’s no telling whose it might have been, either,” 
declares Lincoln. “ I was becoming desperate. I 
shall never voluntarily take a vow of silence again in 
the company of three women, never; they would 
force an angel to disobedience.” 

“ My dear, no one spoke to you,” says his mother. 
“We were doing admirably without your conversa- 
tion.” 

“ Thank you ; you may dispense with my talk, but 
not with my assistance. You would have stood there 
on that rock until to-morrow, like a blind man on a 
sugar-barrel trying to find the moon with a spy-glass ; 
and unless I interfere I verily believe you will stand 
there, as it is, until the sun sets. Courtney, it is four 


O^ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 205 

o’clock, and we are not any too familiar with these 
woods, and the houses are none too near together. Move 
on, or we will find ourselves overtaken by dark.” 

The thought is a timely one, and we put it into im- 
mediate execution ; down the zigzag, winding path, 
over rock, brier, and brush, we fight our way until at 
last we catch the far-olf haze where the mountain 
breaks away. 

“Hush!” 

A sullen roar falls upon our ear; as we draw nearer 
yet, the roaring changes to restless plunging, and we 
catch the sheen of the yeasty flood, tossing its spray in 
W'hite feathery flakes. We crowd upon the verge of the 
mighty clilf, silent with wonder and admiration. Be- 
fore us is the turbulent tide, dashing over the gray 
mountain-side, into a basin of stone formed in the rock- 
heart of the earth, and into which the furious flood is 
poured both day and night. The opposite bluff towers 
three hundred feet above the dark pool ; the distant 
slopes of the Cumberland spurs, the irregular break of 
the nearer prongs, and the long wild stretch of un- 
broken forest reaching away through the distant crags, 
form a scene beautiful, picturesque, wild, and alluring, 
yet sadly touching. It is nature with her great heart 
broken ; grand, desolate nature. Far and faint the 
music of a horn floats across the yawning abyss, and 
then the baying of the hounds upon a fresh trail follows 
the sound. 

A vision of a land of dreams it now seems, as we 
stand with bated breath watching the sunlight dimpling 
the silver bubbles of the foamy sea hissing around us. 

“ Shall we find anything grander ?” asks Major Craw- 
ford. 

“Hot soOn,” says Eobert. 

18 


206 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ You people spoil your pretty highlands and rivers 
with ugly names,” continues the major. “ The name is 
half the attraction, always.” 

“For instance?” says Lincoln. 

“ Laurinda,” laughs Blanche. 

“ Oh, yes,” he says. “ I had forgotten the little wild 
girl. I wonder if she has responded to the maternal call 
yet, or if she is still romping among the laurel-brakes 
with the hounds. Courtney, how high is this bluff?” 

“ I should say it is three hundred feet,” says Major 
Crawford ; and Bob laughs. 

“ Pretty good calculation, major : three hundred from 
base to summit; the fall not quite one hundred and 
fifty, and just fifty in width ; so says the inscription on 
the other side of the bluff. You have not observed this 
fall upon our right ; I always feel amused when I see 
this little thread-like sheet, full fifty feet deeper than 
the main fall, doing its utmost, it seems to me, to create 
as much confusion as its noisy rival. I have sat here 
for hours and watched and listened and feasted my eyes, 
ears, and soul many a drowsy Sabbath afternoon.” 

“ That was romance in reality,” laughs Blanche. 

“ You will think so when I tell you I read ‘ Kath- 
rina’ on this very bluff one Sabbath afternoon in Sep- 
tember,” he replies. 

“ You were not hunting deer on the Sabbath, I hope,” 
says Lincoln. 

“ No,” replies Eobert. “ I was keeping the Sabbath ; 
worshipping God through His works. I distinctly re- 
member one expression in the poem that echoed my 
sentiments so well that I laid the book beside me on 
the rock, — this same rock, — and repeated the lines over 
and over until I almost believed nature understood the 
compliment. It was this : 


O'ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 


207 


‘ It is enough for God 

That they are beautiful, and hold His thought 
In fine embodiment.’ 


I afterwards cut the words into the bluff somewhere be- 
low us. I always think of them when I visit this 
place; there is a Divinity itself in this construction. 
See how perfect the forming of that basin, and the mar- 
vellous chiselling of the bold, regular wall encircling 
it.” 

“ Yes,” says Blanche, “ the workmanship would do 
credit to an Angelo.” 

“ It speaks a greater architect than Buonarroti,” I 
put in. “Take the entire scene; there is not a touch, 
nor a tone, in design or execution, the old Italian pencil 
king could have approximated. The very foliage cor- 
responds to the wildness of the gorge ; not a flower to 
be seen ; none of the delicate mosses we have found so 
abundant about the moist mountain bluffs; only the 
holly and hemlock pines, and the hardy rank laurel. 
There is a wilderness of it below us.” 

“ Let’s investigate the ‘ wilderness,’ ” cries Lincoln. 

“Not I,” says Mrs. Crawford. “My days of foolish 
daring ended with my days of romance; the value of 
life and limb is fully appreciated. I intend to stay 
where I am, and enjoy the beauty before me ; the sun- 
light dancing in that foam-flood is the loveliest picture 
I ever beheld. The mountains fascinate me more 
every hour I spend among them.” 

“ I was thinking the same,” says Blanche. “ Mr. 
Courtney, do you read Goethe ?” 

“ Not often,” Bob replies. “ Why ?” 

And she answers, — 

“ It is Goethe who says, — 


208 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

‘ On every mountain height 
Is rest.’ 

Was he not right?” 

Before Bob can answer, Lincoln again calls for vol- 
unteers to go below. “Blanche,” he insists, “ do come; 
where is all your courage lately ?” 

She shakes her head, and Major Crawford offers the 
undignified suggestion that not “courage” so much as 
“ backbone” is necessary for such a climb. 

“ Father,” cries Lincoln, “ you are shockingly vulgar, 
as well as ignorant. This is the nineteenth century, 
when such low commodities as backbones are not toler- 
ated. Back, in every other form except that of a 
spinal column, is the thing mostly to be desired, and is 
essentially a feminine characteristic ; back-ache is ex- 
clusively woman’s ailment, backsliding her darling sin, 
backbiting her pet amusement; but a fool must know 
the women of the nineteenth century have no back- 
bone'' 

We cry out against such wholesale slander, and 
Blanche indignantly tosses a stone at the offender, and, 
greatly to her own surprise, the pebble grazes the 
young man’s forehead. 

“Bid you aim at the sun?” he asks, rubbing the 
wounded part with the forefinger of his left hand. 
“ Because if you did, being a woman, you would nat- 
urally have come within just that distance of your aim. 
Women are curious marksmen ; they aim at a pyramid 
and hit a pig.” 

“ Exactly,” says Blanche. “ I have just demonstrated 
that ; and now the piggy is squealing.” 

We all laugh, and the Yankee admits that for once a 
woman’s shot has told. And then, while the others are 


O^ER MOUNTAIN, O’ER FOREST. 


209 


engaged in admiring some newly-found beauty, we slip 
away, Lincoln and I, to the wilderness below the bluff. 

Above the purplish peaks which guard the east bound- 
ary, a pillar of blue floats dreamily : in the west the 
pillar of fire is flooding the wilderness with splendor. 

Through thickets of ivy and jungles of rank, wild 
growth we fight our way down the zigzag, broken 
trail, catching at anything that offers a support, as the 
up-piled polished stones turn beneath our feet. Half- 
way down the descent Lincoln turns to me and asks, — • 

“ Hid you ever see such a wilderness ? there are ten 
thousands of rocks, almost of a size, round and polished 
as if they might have been showered from the clouds ; 
and the ivy grows here almost as freely as on the level 
heights. It is worse as we descend ; do you think it 
advisable to go on ?” 

“ I think it advisable to go on,” I reply ; and after a 
moment he says, — 

“ Ho you know I enjoy having you for a companion 
in these break-neck rambles ?” 

“ I had no idea you were so condescending,” I laugh- 
ingly answer, steadying my foot upon a fallen tree 
lying across the trail, “though I can easily understand 
your enjoyment. No one else is foolish enough to like 
such daring escapades: poor company is better than 
none.” 

“ That is just where you are in error,” he replies. 
“ Poor company is infinitely worse than none. Ho you 
expect to get over that tree ?” 

“ That depends,” I answer. “ I have an idea the old 
tree is unreliable ; it looks as if it had lain here since 
the flood. I never run risks which involve the safety 
of my neck. Try it ; if it carries you over I will 
follow.” 

1 8* 


o 


210 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

He places a hand upon the log and vaults lightly to 
the other side. 

“ Follow me, if you dare,” he says, with a laugh ; 
and measuring with a quick glance the space under- 
neath, I crawl through and stand triumphantly at his 
side. 

“Done like a Yankee,” he declares, and we hasten 
on toward the fall. More and more distinct the dash 
of the water comes to us, and through the parting of 
laurel-leaves we catch the fall of the silver spray tossing 
and fretting in the crimson sunlight. 

At length we stand upon the brink of the basin and 
watch the still, blue water, that is scarcely ruffled by 
the force of the torrent above. The flood spends its 
strength and dies into white mist long before it reaches 
its destination. 

“Look,” says Lincoln, pointing to the bold precipice 
rising to our left, — 


“ ‘ It is enough for God 
That they are beautiful, and hold His thought 
In fine embodiment.’ ” 

Hob’s inscription has again-expressed the grandeur of 
creation. 

It grows dusky about the basin : a narrow border of 
sunlight upon the upper rim of the bluff marks the 
going of the sun. 

A pebble, another and another, drops at our feet, and 
looking up we see they are beckoning us to come. The 
border of sunlight narrows ; when again we reach the 
upper world only a tiny thread of gold encircles the 
brow of the rocks. 

“How, father,” says Lincoln, as we drive through 


O^ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 211 

the gathering twilight, “ I move we seek a higher 
plane.” 

“ My son, I think we are near enough to the clouds,” 
answers the major, and all laugh at the young man’s 
confusion. 

“I am not finding fault with the altitude of the 
country,” he explains, “ but the summer is half spent. 
If we are to visit any of the fashionable resorts it is 
time we were thinking of them. Why, Blanche’s 
summer wardrobe will be out of style before she has 
an opportunity to air her finery. The dry goods had 
as well be in Amsterdam as lying at the bottom of a 
trunk at a railroad station sixty miles distant.” 

“ Speak for yourself,” cries Blanche. “ If you have 
any pet finery you are impatient to exhibit, say so like 
a man. As for me, the little trunk in front carries all 
the wardrobe I require for the present.” 

“ That band-box !” he sneers, “ that would not ac- 
commodate the trousseau of a Paris doll.” 

“ At any rate it is accommodating two young ladies 
very nicely, and will until we meet our Saratogas ; is 
it not so, Hell ?” 

I answer in the affirmative, and we unanimously 
decide that it is Lincoln himself who is longing for the 
fiesh-pots of Egypt, — more fashionable society. 

“ Mot I,” he declares. ‘‘ I have fully determined to 
give the world the dodge. My future career is set- 
tled. I shall be a mountaineer, raise sugar-cane for 
|myself and ‘Old Cain’ for my family. I shall sit under 
my own vine and fig-tree and plan the morrow’s task 
for my wife and children. I shall live upon venison, 
corn-cake, mineral water, and wild-cat whiskey. My 
chateau en Spagne shall be located in the Tennessee 
Highland, — ^you cannot fail to observe the fitness of the 


212 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

location. I shall be a freeman, a terror to revenue 
officers, a protector of my own rights with the faith- 
fulness of Capparus in the old Athenian temple.” 

“ Oh, spare us !” cries Blanche. “ Be merciful to the 
memory of the illustrious canine. Mr. Courtney, are 
we very far from your friend’s home ?” 

“We are almost there,” Bob answers ; “ immediately 
beyond that wheat-field to our right his house is lo- 
cated.” 

“ Beyond what V' ejaculates Lincoln, at the same time 
giving his bridle a jerk which causes the horse to rear 
upon its hind feet. 

“ Keep at a safer distance, young man,” says Eobert ; 
“your steed seems disposed to be too familiar. I spoke 
of a wheat-field: is there anything alarming in that? 
We are in a more fertile part of the mountain now.” 

“Surety this is no wheat country?” says the major. 

“ Strictly speaking, no,” replies Eobert. “ Uncle Tom 
has his own wheat-field, and some of his neighbors 
have followed his example. They do not attempt to 
raise more than enough for their own consumption.” 

“ I’ll wager my new beaver and best walking-cane that 
your Uncle Tom is a ‘ down-Easter,’ ” says Lincoln, as 
he rides leisurely along b}^ the side of the open carriage. 

“Yes, he is,” says Eobert; “but he is a Tennessean 
by right of twenty years’ citizenship. He came here 
for his wife’s health twenty years ago, and his mountain 
investment has proved a success. Whoa, sir.” 

A man is coming down the road, — a short, small man, 
whose easy, light gait proclaims him of a different 
country from the slow, heav}^ mountaineer. We can- 
not see his face yet, in the deepening twilight, but he has 
evidently seen us, and is coming toward us. As he 
comes within speaking distance, Eobert draws in the 


O'ER MOUNTAIN, O'ER FOREST. 213 

horses. The stranger begins drawing oif the brown 
yarn gloves he wears, and when the carriage stops he 
is at the door holding out his hand to Eobert. 

“ And you did come back,” he says, pleasantly, as 
Eobert takes his hand in a hearty grasp. 

“ Come back like the Bible fellow. Uncle Tom, bring- 
ing ‘seven others’ with me,” replies Eobert. 

“ That’s right,” declares Uncle Tom. “ Yin said you 
Avouldn’t come back, but I thought you would. Drive 
on up. Aunt Yin will be powerful glad to see you.” 

lie turns his face homeward again. 

“ Uncle Tom, you need not go back,” says Eobert. 
“ I can take care of the horses.” 

“ So can I,” is the reply, as the friendly host goes 
leisurely on before us. Twilight holds the mountain in 
a mystical, mellow haze, the first faint stars are shining 
in the deep blue above us, the harvest moon swings low 
over the broad wheat-field, lately gleaned of its golden 
treasure ; far across the field a young lamb is bleating ; 
as we draw near the house, we see the rich, dark, 
gracefully-trimmed cedars in the yard, and the low 
eaves of the little cottage among the shadowy trees. 
A young girl of some sixteen summers is resting a 
bare, plump arm on the rude gate, while one hand is 
extended to caress a pet deer on the outside. A mock- 
ing-bird is trilling its heart out in a cage under the 
low eaves. As we draw up the girl bears too heavily 
on the frail support in the effort to got a clearer view 
of us, the latch slips its hold, the little gate with its 
fair burden swings open, and the frightened fawn, fail- 
ing to understand the sudden move, bounds away, the 
tinkling of his silver bell sounding a series of merry 
changes as he disappears beyond the barn at the end 
of the lane. 


214 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The girl laughs merrily at the foolish pet’s discom- 
fiture, and steps forward to hear the names Eobert is 
calling over as each new hand is extended to Uncle 
Tom. 

Then pretty Janey Pearson shows us into the pleasant 
little mountain home. How the mocking-bird trills, 
and trolls, and whistles, as we pause in the door-way to 
greet the pleasant little woman who is so noisily beg- 
ging pardon for not coming out to meet us. 

She is “ glad to see us,” especially pleased that the 
young hunter, Eobert, has remembered to “ come back 
to them, as he promised to do ; and she hopes we will 
like the loneliness well enough to remain some days ; 
and will Janey inform Dick there is company in the 
house and his music is out of order?” And Janey, the 
mountain-girl who found a happy home at Uncle Tom’s, 
as we afterwards learn, when her mother died down 
in the cove, goes to deliver the message to the mock- 
ing-bird Dick, who is about to split his throat in the 
effort to express his delight that the shadow-bearing 
twilight is about to drop upon the mountain again. 

Into the little front room we are ushered, and soon 
forget our weariness and dust in the enjoyment of the 
rest and freshness of the paradise into which we have 
suddenly landed. 

The lamps are still unlighted, and the grayish-blue 
twilight creeps through the open door. The pink and 
white roses are thrusting themselves through the white- 
curtained window, and filling the room with sweetness. 
The odor of cedar comes from the other side to mingle 
its freshness with the breath of the roses. The fawn’s 
bell tinkles merrily, and Dick in his cage is trilling his 
most passionate lullaby to the fading day. G-oethe is 
right, — 


O^ER MOUNTAIN, O’ER FOREST. 215 

“ On every mountain height 
Is rest.” 

When we have had our supper of dried venison and 
fresh rolls, tea and buns and new honey, we gather 
upon the low porch and listen to Dick’s last rehearsal 5 
after which Uncle Tom and Eobert entertain us with 
reminiscences of the latter’s last hunt in the neighbor- 
hood. 

“ I tell you, Eobert,” says Uncle Tom, “ you had a 
hard time with that broken leg ; I was afeard, some- 
times, you’d not pull through.” 

And Bob answers, — 

“ Yes, and but for you and Aunt Yin I should have 
gone to the ‘ happy hunting-ground’ that summer.” 

“ Don’t be too confident,” interrupts Lincoln ; “ these 
underground routes are awfully uncertain for dead 
beats.” 

“ Fie !” cries Mrs. Crawford, “ to jest upon so serious 
a subject!” 

“I am only giving dead facts. The road to the 
happy hunting-ground is a dead uncertainty,” he re- 
plies, so seriously we all laugh, more at the young 
man’s expression than at the miserable pun. 

Dick, who has been silent a moment, here sets up 
such a series of trills, and trolls, and crescendos, and 
fortissimos, that Janey banishes him to the kitchen. 

Twilight has given place to night, dewy, silent, rest- 
ful; the wind scarcely stirs in the branches of the 
cedars ; the moon is flooding the world with silver. 

“ On every mountain height 
Is rest.’' 


216 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE devil’s race-tracks. 


“ No life is like the mountaineer’s : 

His home is near the sky, — 

Where, throned above the world, he hears 
The strife at distance lie.” 

Did ever a bird trill such a mad madrigal as Dick 
volunteers for our morning entertainment ? Sleep is 
not to be thought of with the bird trilling as though 
every songster in Tennessee had sent him a challenge. 

But Dick is not the only early riser at Uncle Tom’s. 
Some one has been plying the dasher just beyond our 
window for half an hour ; and the churner seems to be 
almost as happy as the bird, for she too is singing. 

“ Where did she learn it ?” I ask, raising my head 
from the pillow to listen : 

“ ‘ The snowy blooms of the hawthorn-tree 
Lay thickly the ground adorning ; 

The birds were singing in every bush, 

At five o’clock in the morning.’ ” 

I wake Blanche, and together we quickly plan a morn- 
ing walk, — “while the dew is on the clover.” 

“ ‘ And the breeze of the morning kissed her brow, 

And played with her nut-brown hair.’ ” 

Blanche is humming the rustic love-ballad while she 
makes a hasty toilet. 

“ ‘ The old, old story was told again. 

At five o’clock in the morning.’ ” 


THE DEVIL'S RACE-TRACKS. 


217 


“ ‘ The old, old story’ will be wanting this morning,” 
I say, as we steal noiselessly through the back door. 
“We shall find the ‘dew’ and the ‘sun’ and maybe the 
‘ hawthorn-blossoms,’ but never ‘ the mower who whets 
his scythe’ 

‘ At five o’clock in the morning.’ ” 

As we come around the corner of the house, Blanche 
suddenly stops, and, laying her hand upon my arm, 
says in a half whisper, — 

“ ‘ And Bessie the milkmaid merrily sang, 

The meadow was very fair ; 

And the breeze of the morning kissed her brow, 

And played with her nut-brown hair.’ ” 

Janey is swinging to and fro on the gate among the 
cedars. The breeze of the morning “plays with her 
nut-brown hair” as she tosses her head saucily toward 
the tall young mountaineer on the outside. The pig- 
gin hanging between the slabs of the gate argues the 
errand of the “ milkmaid,” though she seems in no 
hurry to go to her task. 

“ Paying toll ?” I ask. 

“ Not they,” says Blanche. “ I think he is asking, — 

‘ May I go with you, my pretty maid ?’ 

At any rate, it is ‘ the old, old story.’ I dislike to in- 
terrupt the lovers, but it must be done.” And then she 
breaks into singing, — 

“ ‘ And the old, old story was told again. 

At five o’clock in the morning.’ ” 

The two surprised ones turn blushingly toward us, 
and Dick begins to trill and call and whistle as though 
he had been noting the proceedings all the while. 

K 19 


218 THE SVNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Janey evidently bears us no grudge, for she offers to 
pilot us, or rather to allow us to go with her to salt the 
calves. 

The youii^ mountaineer has no thought of being left ; 
he seizes the piggin of salt, and saunters along with us 
as though he were lord of the land. 

“Which meadow, Janey?” he asks. 

“ The low ground,” she replies ; “ and over to see the 
Devil’s Eace-Tracks if jmu like.” The last of the re- 
mark being addressed tp us, Blanche replies, — 

“ If an early visit will not disturb his lordship, we 
will be most happy to go. Dear! look at the cows. 
Nell, hide your red scarf ; the ‘ beastis’ may take a 
fancy to chase us, and I should much prefer a race with 
his Satanic Majesty this morning than with an un- 
romantic old cow.” 

We cut across the sedge-field where the sheep are 
grazing, and emerge in Uncle Tom’s clover-field beyond. 
Knee-deep in the dewy blossoms of the late growth we 
pause to catch a breath of the fragrant mountain 
breeze. 

“ It reads like a romance,” I exclaim. 

“ No, it reads like a poem,” says Blanche. Then she 
turns to Janey. “ Do we climb that fence ?” 

“ Yes, that, and two more,” she replies, and Blanche 
grows bolder. 

“Miss Janey,” she says, “ may I know your friend’s 
name ?” 

She looks saucily at the tall young mower treading 
out the clover-blooms while he zealously hugs the 
piggin. 

“ His name is Pink,” says Janey. 

“Well, Pink, will you kindly let down a rail or two 
of that fence ?” I ask. “As a general thing I do not 


THE DEVWS RACE-TRACKS. 


219 


object to scaling a wall, provided it is not more than 
ten feet ; but I seriously insist riding rails in mid-air 
is unladylike. Come ; four rails will do, I think.” 

Blanche seizes the hand that has laid aside the 
precious piggin to do my bidding. “ Not a rail,” she 
says. “Her timidity is all affectation, and her modesty 
all bosh. Only yesterday she climbed a three-hundred- 
feet bluff, and rode a horse no lady had ever mounted, 
— rode him up the steepest paths and over the deepest 
gullies, — rode him right into the jaws of death. Come, 
Frisk, — 

‘ Come here, you scamp I 
Jump for the gentleman . 

There is no escape, the majority is against me ; and 
climbing to the top, I steady myself on the poplar rail, 
gather my skirts, and land on the other side, — land in 
a wild turkey’s nest, and the cries of the indignant old 
mother-hen, mingled with the applause of my audience, 
produce a noise which would have drowned the clatter 
of Minerva’s clappers with which Hercules cleared 
Stymphalis, in Arcadia. 

“ The rogue isn’t too old to jump, after all,” says 
Blanche, slipping through a crack between the lower 
rails, while Pink lowers the two topmost for the “ milk- 
maid’s” convenience, and follows her over the im- 
provised stile. 

“ I insist that I am the only member of this party 
that has acted fair and square,” I exclaim, when all are 
over and we have plunged into the wood, beyond 
whose confines his Satanic Majesty holds his revels. 

“You done it pretty fair, but not mighty square: 
you hit it flat,” says Pink, at which Blanche turns 
abruptly, holds out her hand, and exclaims, — 

“Pinkney Smith, Jones, or Johnson, whichever your 


220 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

name may be, you are a Pink of perfection, and as 
such I offer you the right hand of fellowship, and 
volunteer to — help carry the piggin. Your wit would 
do credit to a full-blooded Irishman, and your wis- 
dom shame a senate of Solons. You should — catch the 
piggin!” 

Too late; she holds on to the young man’s hand, 
shaking it furiously, until she succeeds in shaking the 
vessel from his grasp ; then she drops her hold and 
laughs at his discomfiture. 

A merry jingle of a bell sounds behind us, and J aney 
recognizing the sound, cries, — 

“ There goes Blossy ; she got tired waiting for her 
salt, I guess.” 

A snow-white heifer hurries through the meadow, 
with the bell at her throat keeping up a merry jingle 
as she goes. 

We follow Janey to the “low meadow,” and then, 
having disposed of the salt, or such as is left of it, we 
hurry on through dewy grasses and over the rock 
fields until at length the pretty “ milkmaid,” as Blanche 
insists on calling her, points to a queer-looking stone 
elevation and cries, — 

“ Yonder’s the Tracks.” 

Before us stands a gigantic rock-pile covering several 
acres of ground. The walls rise full one hundred feet 
above the earth, and appear a perfectly solid mass until 
we approach near enough to see the curious cuts nature 
has made, slashing the giant rock with heartless hand, 
but smoothing and arranging with geometrical exact- 
ness the paths intersecting every hundred feet. These 
paths are cut entirely through ; there are no pictur- 
esque clefts which shelter the mountain verdure ; not 
so much as a fern finds a footing in the crannies. The 


THE DEVIHS RACE-TRACKS. 


221 


narrow defiles are cut deep, smooth, and exact, as 
though nature had measured and sounded the material 
before applying the chisel. 

We stand at the entrance end of the paths and look 
•down the narrow, natural corridor. 

“Is his Honor in?” I exclaim, peeping over Janey’s 
shoulder. 

“ In or out, I am going to try his Eace-Track,” says 
Blanche. “We will get up an appetite for our break- 
fast in a chase around the Plutonian battlements.” 

“'We shall more probably lose the breakfast itself,” 
I reply ; “ but proceed ; I will follow.” 

“ Hot I,” she declares. “ Miss Janey, your Pink of per- 
fection must lead the way and keep the monster at bay. 
Come, Sir Knight, you can throw the piggin at him if 
he shows fight ; in that way you may disarm him of his 
horns, at least. What’s the matter?” 

“I’m tired totin’ the piggin,” he replies, “and you 
promised to holp me.” 

“So I did,” she laughs, “but I am company.” 

“ Give it to me ; I need a hat any way,” says Janey, 
balancing the bucket on her pretty head. 

“Level-headed, true -footed, sure - hearted,” says 
Blanche : “ this makes a heroine. Ugh, how close and 
hard tjie walls are !” rapping the surface with a light 
reed she carries ; “ they suggest some men’s lives : nar- 
row, hemmed in, dull, close. I would like to be above 
and look down ; I feel smothered in here.” 

“You can’t turn until you get to the crossing,” says our 
guide. “ Squeeze through here, — and it’s better there.” 

And through it we squeeze, and renew our monot- 
onous march through the underground paths running 
in parallel and perpendicular lines through the rocky 
heart of the strange ibrmation. 

19 * 


222 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ This calls for single-file,” says Blanche, and she 
laughs. “ In single-file we take our melancholy march 
to the kingdom of Mephistopheles.” 

“ Where is that?” asks honest Pink. 

“ Oh, you dear, innocent mountain Pink !” cries 
Blanche. “ Mephistopheles, one writer says, is one of 
the chief of seven devils of the old demonological liter- 
ature ; another makes him out a good, jolly, Dutch 
devil ; while Carlyle, caustic Carlyle, declares he is the 
only genuine devil of these latter times. At any rate 
he is a devil, you understand, whether English, Dutch, 
or American. Now, if I have not made my meaning 
clear, it is because I am not well acquainted with the 
horned monster; my friend Miss Courtney is, however, 
one of his faithful subjects, and can tell you a good deal 
more about his lordship, — hey, Nell?” 

“ I have forsworn allegiance to him,” I reply, “ since 
the day I heard he had refused to accept as a follower 
my friend and companion Miss McChesney. How 
much more of this subterranean monotony ?” 

“ Not much, miss,” says our Pink. “ If you stop talk- 
ing a minute you can hear the creek on the outside.” 

“ Stop talking to hear a creek !” cries Blanche. 
“Why, she would not stop to hear the cherubim, — 

‘ A thousand choirs 

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires.’ ” 

And then she cries, “ Look ! out yonder I can catch 
the green of the outer world ; let’s hurry.” 

We agree to the proposition, and soon stand in the 
blaze of sunlight, along the banks of the little moun- 
tain stream hurrying on to the distant meadow. I 
turn to look back at the narrow cavern. 

“Henceforth I render unto Satan the things that 


THE DEVIL'S RACE-TRACKS. 


223 


are Satan’s. I have had an elegant sufficiency of that 
dungeon, and his Satanic Highness may race there un- 
disturbed, for my part, until these old mountains are dis- 
solved. Let’s gather a handful of those yellow flowers 
growing in the sun. I feel like a sun-bath is necessary 
to remove the grave-scent from my garments.” 

“ We had best be going, I suspect, if we wish any 
breakfast,” Blanche suggests. 

“ The horn will blow,” says Janey, “ in time for 
breakfast ; but these yellow-tops ain’t pretty. There’s 
lots of red cypress nearer the water, behind the bushes ; 
and blue stars and white feather-blooms too.” 

Down we go among the cane and rushes to the very 
verge of the water, seizing the pretty dew-gemmed 
cypress as the strong breeze tosses the stalk our way, 
and twining it among our bright green ferns and mosses. 

Ah! that early morning, with its dew and sunshine 
and primroses; happy hearts, merry voices, singing 
brooks, and lowing of cattle. The world is good, here 
at least ; it is hard to realize there can be ashes and 
ruin in any of God’s bountiful creation. 

Blanche touches my arm, — 

“ ‘ The old, old story was told again, 

At five o’clock in the morning.’ ” 

Pink is bending, one knee upon a flat rock, by the 
stream, which position he has employed to reach the 
large crimson bloom he is holding out to the “ maid of 
the piggin,” while she, Janey, stands upon a stone just 
beyond reach of the water bubbling about her. The 
pail is still upon her head, or rather, her head within 
the pail, smiling, evidently enjoying the humbleness of 
her hero, as she reluctantly holds her hand to receive 
the rich, red bloom. 


224 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


The horn sounds the call for breakfast, and, gather- 
ing our floral treasures, we retrace our steps through 
the fragrant meadows. 

“ ‘ Fresh as a flower when rains are falling, 

Pure as a child that prays. 

Ah I for the days beyond recalling,- 
Ah ! for the golden days.’ ” 

He 5{S * * * * ^ 

The carriage is at the door again, and Uncle Tom 
and Aunt Yin are saying good-by. The sun bathes the 
meadow in warmth, and the light shadow-clouds float 
dreamily through the blue sky. The breeze springs 
to meet us, and we pass out toward the pleasant valley 
of the Sequachie. 


CHAPTEE XX. 

IN A HIGHLAND CITY. 

" And here’s a land that’s quite as fair 
As that between the Boon and Ayr.” 

“And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 

The echoing chorus sounds through the evening calm and still.” 

“We are coming to the real pleasure of our trip,” 
says Mrs. Crawford, as we gather upon the balcony in 
front of the pleasant hotel we have found in the little 
highland town. 

“ It is delightful to find rest and comfort after rough- 
ing it for thirty days in the mountains. I think fate 
changed our route for us.” 

“One usually finds ease along the track of the 
railroad,” says Lincoln, who is half reclining in a large 


IN A HIGHLAND CITY. 


225 


rustic chair, lazily smoking a cigar. “ When the iron 
road shall have completed the ascent of the mountains, 
then we may indeed expect to find ease seated upon 
their summits.” 

The balcony is almost deserted ; it is the hour when 
the summer visitors take their evening promenade. 
The pleasant walks are lined with them : we can see 
their pink, blue, and white dresses under the maples 
that line the walks. A number of children are having 
a game of “ tag” in the park, just below the balcony, 
much to the annoyance of several nurses, who are 
calling to them that the dew is falling. Other dusky 
damsels, not so mindful of the health of their young 
charges as of their own pleasure, are flirting with the 
dandy-looking head-waiter from the dining-room, who 
has come to show himself among his admirers, that 
always throng the park at this hour. 

The air comes deliciously refreshing through the 
large hall behind us, and lifts the lace curtains of the 
windows, waving them gracefully over the balcony rail. 

“ One would soon grow indolent in this Lotus Land ; 
that breeze comes direct from Ben Lomond, and is 
deliciously laden with sweetness,” I say, leaning my 
head upon the high back of my chair, and lazily watch- 
ing a star that has just begun to sparkle above the 
steeple of the church near by. 

“ ‘ And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast, — 

Oh, the faint sweet smell of the jasmine-flower! — 

And the one bird singing alone to its nest, 

And the one star over the tower.’ ” 

I repeat the verse softly as the constellation appears 
brightly distinct in the blue dome above. 

Aux Italiensr said Lincoln. ^ “Eepeat the entire 
poem. Miss Courtney.” 

P 


226 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“I must ask you to excuse me,” I answer. “It 
makes me sad; Owen Meredith always does. I read 
his poems, his begt and tenderest, but I afterwards 
find myself asking, — 

‘ What lies beyond ? 

Only the wheel of Ixion.’ 

I always fight against sadness, our human heritage.” 

“ Yes,” he says; “ the poet was right in supposing that 

‘ Not in Hades alone 

Does Sisyphus roll ever frustrate the stone, 

The Daniades ply ever vainly the sieve, 

Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give ’ 

Surely you like Lucile ?” 

“No, I don’t,” I reply. 

“Why? there is as much truth as poetry in the 
poem,” he declares, with some show of surprise. 

“ That is just the objection,” I reply. “ One does 
not seek or expect truth in poetry; sermonizing will 
spoil the best romance ever planned.” 

“Well,” he laughs, “ that is surely a novel reason for 
disliking a book ; but, to be sure, it is a feminine license 
to eschew truth in a book, as it is a poetic license with 
the author to shun it. Mother, where is Blanche ?” 

“ She has gone for a walk with Mr. Courtney ; and, 
Lincoln, if you and Nell would like to follow their 
example, go on: do not stay here on my account. 
Your father has driven over with a gentleman to visit 
the woollen-mills, but I am sure he will be. in soon. So, 
if you wish a walk, go and have it ; the whole town 
seems to be out.” 

“Would you like to take a little exercise. Miss 
Courtney?” asks Lincoln, tossing the stump of his 
cigar over the balustrade. 


IN A HIGHLAND CITY. 


227 


‘‘Climbing the mountains for thirty days is exercise 
enough for a fortnight yet,” I answer. “Beside, we 
are going for a sail on the river after a little, and we 
will be worn out when we return.” 

“ You need not be alarmed as to the sail ; it is only a 
five miles’ run,” says Lincoln. 

“ And five back,” I reply. “ Ten miles is pretty good 
boating for one evening. And to-morrow we are going 
to take dinner on Ben Lomond : we will be worn out 
before we start.” 

“ Oh, I am not trying to persuade you,” he says, 
rising. “ Mother, where are your keys ? It seems to 
me I have a boating suit somewhere in the baggage.” 

“ Who ever heard of any one taking a boating suit on 
a summer excursion to the mountains?” I exclaim, as 
he takes the bunch of keys from his mother’s hand. 

“If you were more fully acquainted with the North- 
ern nature, my dear Miss Courtney,” he replies, “ you 
would perceive that a Yankee never goes unprepared 
for any emergency. Well, I will see you later.” 

He disappears jingling the keys and humming an 
air from Norma. At the same time we hear Blanche 
running lightly up the stairs, laughing gayly at some 
remark of Eobert’s, who, as usual, follows in her wake. 

A moment later they appear upon the balcony. 

“Well,” cries Blanche, “we have had such a lovely 
walk ; and we are going now for a little sail on a little 
river, with the handsomest little boatman your brown 
eyes ever beheld, Nell. 

“ ‘ 0-hoi-yo-ho ! Ho-yo-ho ! 

Who’s for the ferry ? 

(The brier’s in hud, the sun going down.) 

And I’ll row ye so quick and I’ll row ye so steady ; 

And ’tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.’ ” 


228 the sunny SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

She tosses her pretty head merrily as she sings, then 
stoops and leaves a kiss upon Mrs. Crawford’s temple, 
while I finish the verse for her : 

“ ‘ The ferryman’s slim, and the ferryman’s young, 

And he’s just a soft twang in the turn of his tongue; 

And he’s fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry. 

And ’tis but a penny to Twickenham Ferry.’ 

“ Are you sure it isn’t the slim young ferryman that 
makes the prospective ride so alluring, Blanche?’' 

“ at all sure,” she replies ; “ only he has a wife, 
and that circumstance does materially alter the case, 
as I have never yet so far advanced in the arts and ac- 
complishments of modern society as to make love to a 
married man.” 

“Hush, dear, you shock me,” says Mrs. Crawford, 
caressing the hand lying upon the arm of her chair. 

“ Shocking, but true nevertheless,” continues this 
girl, who can handle sarcasm with most unerring 
nicety. “ It argues one precise and uninteresting 
who has no small scandal, in a respectable way, with 
a married man. Why, at one hotel where I once 
stopped I was kept awake until midnight by a court- 
ship in high life, in which a married man was making 
love to a black-eyed young widow.” 

“ Oh, widows do not count,” cries Lincoln, who has 
returned unobserved, and has heard the conversation. 

“ That is just where you mistake,” Blanche protests. 
“ In any game of hearts they score two to one against 
the prettiest girl you can find. They are trumps every 
time.” 

“Well, they only count for tricks ; they never really 
win the game,” says Eobert. 

“ Granted,” she replies ; “ but that does not in the 


IN A HIGHLAND CITY. 


229 


least aifect the truth of my first statement, that it is 
the thing to fiirt with married men.” 

“ Well, go back : how did your story terminate ? I am 
interested,” says Lincoln. 

“ In a most vulgarly unromantic way,” she replies. 
“ The couple were conducting their intrigue just out- 
side my window, which opened like this, you remem- 
ber, Lincoln, upon a balcony. It appears that the 
lover’s Avife had a room above my own, for suddenly in 
the midst of a most edifying conversation a window 
was raised, and a shrill, emphatic voice called, ‘ John, 
you John ! come here quick ; the baby’s got the colic, 
Jennie has the croup, and there is nobody to go for a 
doctor.’ John went, and I remember mentally blessing 
that colicky baby as I dropped off to sleep.” 

‘‘ Well, that was naughty, to say the least of it,” says 
Lincoln ; “ but, my dear friend and sister, you reason 
like a woman, from one side only. You should hear 
both sides of a question before pronouncing sentence ; 
married women flirt as often as their husbands.” 

“Well,” she insists, “that doesn’t improve matters 
one whit. The married man who flirts with a young 
lady, and the single man who carries on with a married 
woman, would have to toss up in order to determine 
which is the more contemptible.” 

“ And what of the other side, the women ?” 

“ Oh ! they are not worth a toss up,” she cries. 

“ My dear, you are too severe,” says Mrs. Crawford. 
“ Lincoln, you must wrap your throat well before going 
on the river; there is always a fog around these moun- 
tains, and this river runs always in sight, and often 
very near them.” 

“ I am all right, mother,” he replies ; “ and yonder 
comes the Avagon for us. Get your wraps, young ladies, 

20 


230 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

and let us be off in time to see the moon sweep round 
Ben Lomond.” 

The ride to the landing-place is only a short one, and 
we are soon entering the boat, which consists of two 
canoes lashed together. When Eobert and Lincoln 
seize the oars, we ask regarding the sails ; they laugh, 
and vigorously ply the oars. 

‘‘And where is the slim young boatman ?” I cry, as 
the boat makes for the middle of the current. 

“ Oh, he originated in Miss McChesney’s imagina- 
tion,” Bob declares. 

“What?” exclaims Blanche, “did I not hear you en- 
gage the boat from a young man, and did you not tell 
me he was the ferryman?” 

“You heard me engage the boat, certainly,” ho 
replies, “but that was all; he entertained no thought 
of forming one of our party.” 

“Like all women, you jump too quickly at conclu- 
sions,” says Lincoln ; but no one notices the gauntlet 
he has thrown down. 

“Miss McChesney,” says Eobert, “I am captain of 
the craft to-night. I hope the disappointment con- 
cerning the fascinating ferryman will detract none 
from the real pleasure of the ride.” 

He leans upon his oar and waits her answer. 

“ Hot in the least ; keep in the path of the moonlight, 
captain.” 

And following the broad track of silver flooding the 
centre of the stream, we drift down the river, silent at 
first, but soon finding our tongues as the moon peeps 
higher above Ben Lomond and the shadows along 
the banks on either side creep farther under their 
coverts. 

How we drift in mid-stream, and now we dip the 


IN A HIGHLAND CITY. 


231 


oars, and the boat glides under the shadow of the great 
overhanging ivy-crowned, ivy-banked bluffs. 

Far away, the unbroken range of the Cumberlands 
rises in shadowy outline against the filmy clouds. 
Kearer, the dark pine-tufted summit of Ben Lomond 
frowns a grim watch above the river and the hamlet 
nestling at its base. Down the stream we drift, always 
under the gaze of the dusky purplish peaks ; a song 
floats to us up the river : 

“ ‘ 0 lioi, and 0 ho, you may call as you will, 

The moon is arising on Petersham Hill ; 

And with love, like a rose, in the stern of the wherry. 
There’s danger in crossing to Petersham ferry ; 

0-hoi-yo-ho. Ho-yo-ho. Ho-yo-ho.’ ” 

We catch up the refrain and send it back down the 
river : 

“0-hoi-yo-ho. Ho-yo-ho. Ho-yo-ho.” 

A shout answers us, and then the dip of an oar and 
a sound of girlish laughter, as two canoes lashed to- 
gether shoot round the shadowy bend of the stream, 
into the path of the full, flooding moonlight. 

The occupants shout and wave their hands as our 
craft floats by, and we soon lose them in the mist rising 
upon the river. 

Blanche sits in the stern of the boat, trailing her hand 
in the moonlit flood, and says softly, — 

“ ‘Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing. 

Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness ; 

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one to another. 

Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.’ ” 

“ Miss McChesney, you voiced my thoughts exactly,” 
says Bobert from the other end of the boat. 


232 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

‘‘ Great minds, you know,” says Lincoln. “ You two 
are disposed to be entirely too sentimental.” 

“ And I know you entirely too well, my friend,” re- 
plies Blanche, “ not to know that your unusual silence a 
moment since meant some unusual working of your 
busy brain. Now, Lincoln, be honest for once, and tell 
us what were your thoughts while I was repeating that 
stanza from ‘ Evangeline.’ ” 

“ I was, upon my honor, meditating upon Tennyson’s 
ungrammatical burst of enthusiasm : 

‘ Nothing in nature is unbeautiful.’ 

Now, I pronounce that a most unpretty sentence, 
even for a poet licensed to mutilate the king’s English 
at his own erratic pleasure. Miss Courtney, are you 
stricken dumb ?” 

“ Yes,” I answer, “dumb with wonder at your daring. 
Don’t you know it is high treason to breathe ever so 
lightly ’gainst the old sacerdotal robes of the priestly 
poets who have imbedded their names upon the fossil- 
iferous rock of fame ? A scientist finds a fern-leaf clearly 
outlined in a stone : perfect, complete, except a tiny bit 
is missing from the frond. Shall we swear ’tis no fern 
for such a trifle? Just so, poets are poets, if they 
make a jingle. Who stops to consider sense in a gen- 
uine licensed poet? The bit of missing frond does not 
alter the value of the fossil. My friend, poetry is one 
thing, sense is quite another.” 

“ Oh, no, you are entirely wrong,” says Lincoln. 
“ Poets deal exclusively in sense ; they build their fame, 
their hopes, and their summer homes upon the poet’s 
sense, which is li-cense.” 

“Don’t!” we exclaim in a breath. 


IN A HIGHLAND CITY. 


233 


“ The man who ventures to make another pun will 
be thrown overboard,” cries Robert, dramatically lift- 
ing his oar. 

We all laugh at the threatening look of the captain. 
Then Lincoln looks at his watch. ‘‘ Head her up- 
stream, captain,” he orders. “ It is nine of the clock, 
and we are booked for Ben Lomond to-morrow.” 

So we face about and turn homeward, with the moon 
shining full upon the stream, and the low, musical dash 
of the water, as it washes the sides of our boat, blending 
harmoniously with the soft sough of the wind among 
the trees upon the neighboring bluff. 

Homeward ; pulling against the tide, laughing to see 
the cruel contortions of our forms in the shimmering, 
mocking water. 

Ten o’clock by the captain’s time-piece when the boat 
grates upon the sand and our feet again touch land. 

“Let us have a song, a jolly good song like ‘Haney 
Lee,’ — 

‘ Yo-ho, lads. Ho-ye-ho.’ 

“Ho, no, Lincoln; there are at least a score of 
sleeping babies between here and the hotel,” cries 
Blanche. “We should be arrested for disturbing the 
peace.” 

“ Or for cruelty to animals ?” he asks. 

“Oh, how unkind you are!” she says, but laughs 
nevertheless. 

“ Unkind, indeed !” he replies. “ Is there any crime 
in calling a sick baby a dear? And is there any truth 
in calling a deer an animal ? I should say not, you 
stupid animal you I” 

“ There, he is off again,” cries Robert. “ Come on. 
Miss McChesney ; we must leave him. He isn’t respon- 
sible ; I verily believe the moonlight has made him mad.” 

20 * 


234 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


“ I deny the charge. I am not moonstruck,” he ex- 
claims. “ Miss Courtney, you are the only friend left 
in all my misery.” 

“ I am too sleepy to dispute it,” I reply. As we pass 
the open door of the ball-room, where the dancers are still 
enioyine: the evening’s entertainment, Lincoln asks, — 

“Shall we go in?” 

“ Mot I,” answers Blanche. “ I am tired.” 

We stand a moment at the door watching the flying 
figures, as busy feet keep time to the sprightly gallop ; 
then we creep up-stairs, past the few ladies and gentle- 
men who find conversation preferable to the dance, 
say good-night, and are soon floating away to dream- 
land to the sound of dipping oars and voices floating 
in melody down the river, — 

“And with love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, 
There’s danger in crossing to Petersham ferry. 

0-hoi-yo-ho. Hoi-yo-ho. Hoi-yo-ho.” 


CHAPTEE XXL 

BEHIND THE CLOUDS. 

“ When the mists have rolled in splendor 
From the summit of the hills, 

And the sunshine, warm and tender. 

Falls in beauty on the rills.” 

The morning breaks, even though one can scarcely 
believe it, in the gray, dullish haze that creeps through 
the imperfectly-closed shutters. 

I rise and throw open the window looking toward 
the mountains. 


BEHIND THE CLOUDS. 235 

“ How is tho weather ?” inquires Blanche, from 
among the pillows. 

“ Gray clouds, graj^ fog, gray hills, and grayer expec- 
tations,” I answer. “ The more distant peaks are covered 
with cloud ; the sharp hard line of the Cumberlands is 
entirely hidden in the sluggish, impenetrable fog. Ben 
Lomond is only a duller mass, flanked by a darker roll 
of thunder-clouds. ‘ Host thou like the picture?’ ” 

“ Hot well enough to risk the anger of the elements,” 
she replies. “ Come away. Hell ; close the shutters ; if 
we must resign one pleasure we can enjoy another. It 
is certain that we cannot climb Ben Lomond to-day, 
but we can snatch an extra nap in lieu of it.” 

“Ho, no, Blanche,” I protest; “we shall be here 
only a few days, let’s enjoy it.” 

“ dear, unsophisticated little rustic,” she replies, 
doubling the pillow under her head, “ have you not yet 
learned the daily routine of a summer hotel ? Break- 
fast, tenpins, gossip, dress, dinner, mail, napping, dress- 
parade again, dancing, — and the day is done. Are any 
of these things to be taken in exchange for a snooze 
before the freshness is olf the earth, or the birds, hav- 
ing finished their matins, drowsily droop in the demor- 
alizing mid-day ? Ho close the shutter ; 1 can see the 
mist crowding into the room, and it gives me, as our 
mountain friends would say, ‘ the cold shakes.’ ” 

“ Well, you will have to ‘shake,’ for I intend leaving 
it open.” I take my watch from a jewel-box on the 
toilet dresser. “ Blanche, it is eight o’clock. Ho get 
up ; I will be dull without you,” I insist. 

“ Thanks, ma cherie ; you are too, too kind to say so. 

I Sugar does sometimes win where the coercive bitter failSv' 
But the ill is obdurate in this case, and the subject con- 
trary. You will have Lincoln ; press him into service.” 


236 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


“ I do not wish to disturb Mr. Crawford ; he is 
contrary, and quarrelsome, and sarcastic, and unfeeling, 
and ” 

“ Oh, horror!” she cries. “ ‘Will the line stretch out 
to the crack of doom ?’ You forget he is my friend, my 
foster-brother. I must defend him.” 

“ Our mutual dislike is no secret,” I tell her. “We 
agree in but one particular, — we thoroughly dislike 
each other.” 

“ To be sure, you are neither veiy careful to conceal 
the high regard in which each holds the other,” she 
replies ; “ yet you do contrive to be together a good deal. 
My dear, you are buttoning your jacket wrong.” 

“We are thrown together,” I reply, as I undo the 
long row of buttons I have just succeeded in fastening. 
“Any company is preferable to one’s own brother; 
moreover, Mr. Crawford gets out of the beaten track, 
finds places of interest, — a little dangerous, to be sure : 
just enough so for novelty.” 

“ I understand,” she replies, lazily, appropriating my 
pillow as an additional prop for her pretty head. 

“ ‘ She loved me for the dangers I had passed.’ 

Is that what you mean ? My dear, you are doing the 
same thing again, fastening the second button with 
the first button-hole. I wonder what disconcerts you 
so ?” 

“Come!” I cry, as a loud rap sounds at the door, 
and the golden head propped upon two white pillows 
disappears under the white coverlid. 

The door is partially opened, and a woolly head ap- 
pears, which is immediately withdrawn, and a very 
black hand, bearing a silver bowl of exquisite flowers, 
is inserted in its stead. 


BEHIND THE CLOUDS. 


237 


“ A gemman sent dis h’jar, an’ hoped de ladies am 
feelin’ no convenience f’om de discussion on de ribber 
las’ night.” 

“ Say to the gentleman, Dave, that the ladies are 
feeling quite well this morning and are delighted with 
the flowers,” I reply, as I receive the bowl, and the black 
hand is withdrawn. 

“ Blanche McChesney, uncover your lazy head and 
see what taste,” I cry, approaching the bed and holding 
the floral beauties before her. “ Fresh, sweet roses, pale 
pink, white, and blood-red, buried in a bed of feathery 
moss, fringed by a rim of purple heliotrope. Some- 
body’s gardener has an eye to the fltness of things.” 

She comes up from her pillows saying, — 

“ Suppose you look at the card peeping from that 
creamy rose-leaf in the centre, and satisfy yourself as 
to whose gardener is due the credit of the arrangement. 
It is lovely and” — inhaling the perfume — “delicious.” 

I draw out the tiny white card-board : 

“ Compliments of an old citizen,” I read. “ Now, 
Blanche, you are disappointed.” 

“Not at all,” she replies. “Only skeptical. ‘Old 
citizens’ are not usually so thoughtful, and rarely so 
generous. Blood cools with passing through the third 
decade of one’s years, chills with the fourth, with the 
fifth freezes, and retains its icy solidity through the 
sixth and the seventh ; in tbe eighth the thaw begins, 
but the forty years’ congelation has destroyed the 
vitality of the fluid. It takes young blood to do foolish, 
impulsive, generous deeds.” 

She again buries her face in the roses, then pushes 
them away, and, rising, begins a hurried toilet. 

“ Nell,” she exclaims, “ it is horrid outside. I could 
feel the leaden day before I opened my eyes. Without 


238 ™E sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

doubt it will be a spiritless, tiresome forenoon, but a 
town whose citizens are so thoughtful of the stranger 
within its gates cannot be entirely dull, even when 
wrapped in fog that would do credit to London. If 
you will tarry just two minutes, I shall be ready.” 

“ I shall just do nothing of the kind,” I reply, my 
hand on the door-knob. “ I plead with you half an 
hour to no purpose, and now that you scent a faint odor 
of romance in the track of the roses you are ready to fly 
into the battle. Excuse me, I am going to breakfast.” 

“ Don’t devour the flowers,” she calls after me, “ and 
order the eggs half boiled, and the steak rare, and the 
cakes ” 

I close the door upon further instructions, but her 
clear, ringing laugh follows me in spite of oak and bolt 
as I pass down the steps and into the cool, pleasant 
dining-hall. A few late risers are scattered about the 
room. Eobert is seated at the end of our private table 
reading from a newspaper. Crawford junior sits at 
his right, laughing at some joke my brother has read 
aloud. I take the seat upon the left, placing the bowl 
of flowers in the centre of the table. 

“ Good-morning, gentlemen ; your early rising is com- 
mendable.” 

“ On the ground that ‘ a fellow-feeling makes us gen- 
erous ?’ ” replies Lincoln. 

“ Miss Crawford, have you been plundering Heliop- 
olis ? Your roses are gorgeous.” 

“ Indeed, the old Greek city never boasted anything 
half so fresh and dewy,” I answer ; “ and the best of 
the matter is, they come as a gift from ‘ an old citizen.’ 
See the card ? How, I call that thoughtful.” 

I turn the bowl around and continue : 

They come also at the most opportune moment, 


BEHIND THE CLOUDS. 


239 


when we are regretting the loss of a trip to Ben 
Lomond.” 

“We will go to-morrow,” says Eobert. “A days 
rest will not hurt any of us.” 

“ I am not so sure we can go to-morrow, Bob. 
Listen ! the thunder-clouds have been hanging heavy 
over the mountain all morning; that murderous mutter 
sounds as if they are breaking,” I reply, as a sullen roll 
of thunder is heard. 

“And there comes the rain,” says Lincoln, as a 
misty sheet of water dashes against the window above 
us. 

“ That is nothing,” Eobert insists. “ Hard rains are 
splendid renovators of mountain roads; this soil is 
only improved by a shower.” 

“ In that case they must be in excellent condition,” 
says Blanche, entering unobserved and slipping into 
the vacant chair by the side of Lincoln. 

“ Good-morrow, gentlefolks. Mr. Courtney, are you 
dreaming ? The rain is beating in upon your unread 
newspapers from the window in your rear. Lincoln, 
where is the major?” 

“Laid up for repairs,” he replies, breaking an egg 
into a pretty shell of an egg-cup. “ By actual count I 
find he visited yesterday seven mills, — three cotton, two 
grist, and two saw, — two woollen-factories, and one 
spoke-factory, and three large distilleries! The exer- 
tion, together with the severe tax upon the mental 
nature necessary in order to calculate the various ex- 
penditures and actual gain of each institution, proved 
too much. He is dyspeptic to-day, and.I advised him 
to lay up and drink mineral water.” 

“You are a disrespectful and ungallant boy,” she 
replies, pinching his ear. “ Where is your mother?” 


240 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ Airing her last new morning gown to the assembled 
council of appreciative observers in the parlor,” he 
replies, tossing his head beyond reach of the white 
j)incers. “ Blanche, what do you think of a visit to the 
mills this afternoon ? All of you ?” 

“ Sail or swim ?” asks Blanche. 

“ Oh, this rain will be over and forgotten before 
noon. Is it not so, Courtney?” 

“ I should not be afraid to prophesy sunshine in two 
hours,” Eobert replies. “ When you have all finished 
breakfast, let’s go above and examine the clouds.” 

From a third-story window we look toward Ben 
Lomond. The pine summit is still wrapped in a dense, 
massive-looking vapor, that seems a part of the leaden- 
hued clouds beyond. While we watch, the vapor be- 
gins to rise like a vast black shadow, leaving the lower 
mountain bright and green and beautiful. The up- 
hurrying cloud is dragging with it all the doubt, and 
blackness, and gloom ; leaving a restful freshness upon 
the unveiled world below. 

I believe you are right. Bob,” I exclaim. “See 
how fast the mist is rolling skyward. Is it not mag- 
nificent ?” 

“ Look a little farther to your right,” says Eobert. 
“You see only that threatening, glowering, leady 
gloom ; upon the farthest left hand the sun is almost 
ready to shine. I think we can peep into Kentucky 
from the top of Ben Lomond to-morrow.” 

“ Do we walk ?” asks Lincoln. 

“ Qnly a part of the way,” Eobert answers. “We 
will go horseback as far as possible, but it isn’t entirely 
safe to ride the entire distance, especially with strange 
animals.” 


BEHIND THE CLOUDS. 241 

“ Is that point so very high, or is'it only the nearness 
that makes it appear so ?” asks Blanche. 

“ It is about two thousand feet,” Bob answers. “ I 
think one of the chief attractions of Ben Lomond is 
its romantic name.” 

“ I will not admit that,” — it is I who interrupt. “ Our 
mountains may be less famous than the old ghost- 
ridden peaks of Scotland and Switzerland, but they 
are free and fresh and beautiful, and they are ours ; 
thank God for that.” 

“ Amen,” says Bob ; then Lincoln declares, — 

“ There is too strong a draught here ; I suggest we 
find the parlor.” 

“ Ho, no,” Blanche insists. “ Hotel parlors are 
horrid institutions on dull days.” 

“ This one is not,” declares Lincoln. “ Jump !” 

He lifts her lightly from the chair upon which she 
stands, and leads the way to the parlor. A cheerful 
fire burns in the grate, and a dozen or more ladies and 
gentlemen are grouped here and there enjoying the 
warmth, the merry flow of small talk, and the singing 
of a young lady at the piano. 

A gentleman rises as we enter and draws two large 
crimson chairs nearer the cheerful blaze, and we smile 
our thanks and plunge into the unexpected pleasure 
with hearty good will. When the noon bell sounds 
and the party disperses we agree, Blanche and I, that 
our rainy day is the best of all our summer days thus 
far. But there are bright ones ahead, without doubt ; 
for the clouds lift, part, disappear, and at noon the sun 
casts a long glint of golden light upon the pine plumes 
of Ben Lomond; while the peaks beyond, densely 
solemn in the full flood of the morning mist, now stand 
bold and unbroken against the eastern horizon. 

L ^ 21 


242 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 

ON THE HEIGHTS. 


“ Purple and blue and scarlet ; shimmering bells, 

And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, 

Glorious with chain and fret-work that the swell 
Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim.” 

“ How often do we thank God for the mountains ?” 

“I DO not altogether approve of this lightning-express 
way of hurrying over ground,” Mrs. Crawford declares. 
“We have scarcely time to take breath in a place be- 
fore we are commanded to march on. It is only a week 
since we came to this .little town, and now we are 
climbing the mountains again.” 

“Mother, you forget that we have only a summer’s 
holiday in which to enjoy ourselves. Would you spend 
the entire time in one place?” asks Lincoln. 

“ If one is agreeably situated, where is the necessity 
for change ?” she replies. 

“ Oh, as to being pleased, we are pleased with every- 
thing we have seen ; if we are to be governed by that 
we would have pitched our tents permanently long 
ago. We have yet to come to the best of the 
excursion.” 

“Well, what we have seen is wild enough, odd 
enough, and beautiful enough for me. I am getting 
too old to be bumping over the mountains at the 
command of a harum-scarum boy,” she replies. 

“ Xow, mother, don’t,” he cries ; “ if you are so dis- 
tressed at leaving the town, look back at it now. Hold 


ON THE HEIGHTS. 


243 


up, driver. Now, mother, stand a moment. You can 
get a better view so ; give me your hand. Look, Miss 
Courtney ; does it not indeed suggest peace, the lit- 
tle village nestling under the shadow of the moun- 
tain?” 

We stand a moment watching the shadows creeping 
across the yellow fields, or the sunlight on the green 
slopes. The flourishing vineyards are full; orchards 
with their red treasures of fruit are bending to kiss the 
waving meadow-grass. 

“ Now, look toward Ben Lomond,” cries Lincoln : 
“cool, shaded, changeful. That clearing to the right 
is where we stopped for lunch yesterday; and that 
high point a little farther round is whore we stood in 
order to get our best view. That is a pretty picture ; 
but we shall find some grand scenery, I am told, still 
farther up the mountain.” 

We watch the pines nodding and bowing as the 
breeze breaks through their density. We know they 
are sobbing in a low, griefsome melancholy, for yester- 
day we stood beneath their boughs and heard the 
solemn sough of the wind in their tops, a minor music 
in the echoless forest. 

“I love the mountains,” says Lincoln. “They are 
always grand, and new, and restful, and strong. Who 
ever looks toward their summits to meditate upon the 
tumult and discord of this harsh, hurrying old world ? 
Silence, majesty, and strength are there.” 

Unconsciously he lifts his hat and bares his head, 
as though in presence of Him whose feet once sought 
the sacred stillness of the heights about Jerusalem. 

“For a stranger, you give our mountains full 
praise,” I tell him. “ One would suppose you a native 
Tennesseean.” 


244 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

am never long a stranger to the beautiful,” he 
replies. “Nor do I consider these,” pointing toward 
the blue boundary around us, “ as belonging less to me, 
that I am Northern born, than to the urchin dragging 
the speckled trout from your rivers, or beating the 
hazel-bushes in your forests. Mine by heritage of soul^ 
mine by the mystery which draws me to them ; his by 
the fleshly lust which begat him under the shadow of 
their grandeur. Nature chooses her own heritors ; and 
the distribution of her wealth is not unwise. The boy 
may climb to the grandest height of all these moun- 
tains ; he sees below him only his own flelds, his own 
pastures and woodlands ; his soul lies at the bottom of 
the mountain, clinging to the earthy base ; while I, who 
stand below and drink the purple glory of the flne 
ecstatic summits, it is I who hold the real deed of 
owriership.” 

I make no answer, and we ride on in the freshness 
of early morning, through the scented woods, over the 
sloping meadows, where the harvesters are already 
busy at their tasks. Sometimes the mountains break 
away in undulating waves. A dull greenish richness, 
a deeper purple, bright blue, faint azure, vague, un- 
certain, shadowy billows, drifting away toward the 
horizon. 

“Lincoln, do you see the other carriage?” asks Mrs. 
Crawford, when we stop to rest the horses before 
beginning the ascent before us. 

“Yes, mother ; it has never been lost to sight longer 
than five minutes since we started. I have kept an 
eye upon it, as well as upon the precious baggage in 
the rear wagon. Father has left the carriage, and is 
interviewing the baggage-man. Miss Courtney, are 
you asleep ?” he asks. 


ON THE HEIGHTS. 245 

“ Asleep in the midst of such loveliness ? You have 
great respect for my appreciation,” I reply. 

He laughs, and says, — 

“Did you ever see such a world of wild-flowers? 
Those ferns are fully a yard long. Are you a woman 
and not a slave to wild-flowers ?” 

“Hever mind the flowers,” I reply; “look up. Did 
you ever see such a world of mountains V' 

“Never,” he answers. “I wonder whether the 
couple following can see anything of all this grandeur ? 
I should above all things regret to be in love at a time 
like this.” 

“ Why ?” I ask ; and he answers, — 

“For the reason that a man in love is blind, deaf, 
selfish, — in short, a nuisance. Your eyes should be open 
when on a pleasure-trip. Do you not agree with me?” 

“ Of course not ; we never agree,” I reply. “ I think 
lovers are more fully prepared to enjoy themselves than 
any other people. Why, a crow is a ring-dove and a jay 
a nightingale to them. What does it matter which 
bird sings ? The music in their hearts will drown the 
maddest melody that ever sounded.” 

“Just exactly my argument,” he replies, “and I 
grant the truth of every word you say ; but who cares 
to go sight-seeing with a man who is so crazy he can’t 
distinguish a crane from a crawfish ? I insist upon it, 
lovers are a nuisance.” 

“ It may be so,” I admit. “ I am not prepared to argue 
the matter further, having no positive experience upon 
which to base my ideas. I will accept your statement 
of the case until I am better prepared to speak for my- 
self. I suppose I shall be thoroughly informed when 
I leave the fashionable resort to which we are going.” 

“In that case I decline all further friendship with 
21 * 


246 the sunny SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

you,” he says, ‘‘ and shall insist upon your brother’s 
employing a keeper to look to your safety. You will 
be a most unmanageable subject, I imagine, if once the 
sentimental fervor should seize you. Look ! is not that 
grand ?” 

. The long, unbroken line of mountain upon our left 
separates and breaks away, leaving a lower plane be- 
tween the high points on either side. The sun is fast 
lifting the mist from the upper peaks, which appear 
green and fresh ; while through the gap-like opening 
between, the fog is still crowding with shroud-like 
density. 

“ Every moment there is a fresh picture,” says Lin- 
coln. “ Look before us.” 

A long, dark rim of mountain seemingly spreads in 
our path, cool, inviting, grand ; the shadowy outline 
of the trees down the slopes, or bending over the brink 
of the tall precipices, promises delicious freshness and 
unbroken enjoyment. Half-way up the ascent we look 
back. The lower lands are hidden. A sea of pearl- 
tinted, floating mist spreads between us ; above us are 
the inviting heights of Beersheba. 

“ And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blow against tbee ; and if in after-years. 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, then thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies.” 


CLOUD-BUILDING. 


247 


CHAPTEE XXIIL 

CLOUD-BUILDING. 

For, 0 my God, Thy creatures are so frail. 

Thy bountiful creation is so fair, 

That, drawn before us like the temple veil. 

It hides the holy place from thought and care.” 

" She loves the sun and sky, 

She loves the song and dance; 

The groves of sunny Spain, 

The plains of La Belle France.” 

Once more we are settled in a pretty cottage over- 
looking the sunny valley of the Collins Eiver, and the 
blue slope and distant peaks beyond. The lazy afternoon 
of our first day is half ended ; we have spent it, Blanche 
and I, in lazily dreaming upon the great moss-banked 
bluif in the rear of the cottage. For an hour there is 
silence, as she dozes, I read. Suddenly she turns to me : 

“ Xell, close your book and talk to me ; I have 
been lying here watching that amber cloud floating 
around the mountain-tops until my eyes ache. The 
fickle flirt has changed her identity at least a score of 
times. Once she appeared a graceful, airy Hebe, hurry- 
ing with the ambrosial bowl to greet the gods on high 
Olympus. Before she had quite planted her golden- 
shod foot upon the mount, the winds tossed her a fresh 
billow, and the youthful goddess swam away in a seeth- 
ing, fiery sea. The amber waves soon gathered into a 
roll of yellow gold-dust, which shifted and shaped itself 
into a star-spiked mantle. Just now the headstrong 
Phaeton has tilted the golden chariot of Helios, which 
threatens the conflagration of Olympus. See, yonder 


248 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

lies the old Sun-god’s crown of rays as it rolled from 
the young charioteer’s brow to the brink of Eridanus.” 

“What a fanciful girl you are!” I exclaim, closing 
the book I have been reading and following her gaze : 
“Blanche, you are as cloud-crazy as Lincoln Craw- 
ford : look at him now, sitting on the very verge of 
that rock below us. He has been there an hour, as 
motionless as if he were graven from the rock on 
which he is sitting. This place is demoralizing; one 
forgets there is anything like labor and restlessness 
beyond these barriers, and lives as if all life were to be 
only a continuation of this summer dream.” 

“ That is wisdom,” she replies. “ That is the only 
sensible way to enjoy the mountains. This green bank 
upon which I am lying is cool and restful, affording a 
magnificent view of the valley lying below, the varying 
mountain beyond, and the blue sky above; while I catch 
just music enough from the freestone stream oozing 
below the bluff to lull me to sleep if I grow weary with 
watching the panorama provided by nature. There are 
undoubtedly stones beneath the moss cushion on which 
we are sitting, — sharp ones, rough, cruel ones, — but they 
are out of sight, and I am not such an idiot as to spoil 
my pretty comfort by digging for stones.” 

“Now, you are sermonizing,” I reply, “ and unless I 
put a veto upon all such logically serious discourses 
you will soon be a nuisance, and I shall run away and 
find more congenial company.” 

“ I am not much afraid of that,” she laughs. “ You 
would never dare disturb Lincoln ; Mr. Courtney is 
crucifying the flesh in a game of chess with Mrs. Craw- 
ford behind the apricot-vines on the east gallery. Major 
has gone to Gruettito test some grape wine from Herr 
Scheilds’s great cellar. That tells our household; 


CLOUD-BUILDING. 


249 


where do you propose finding better company, Miss 
Courtney, ma clierie f” 

“ Why, among the two hundred guests in the hotel, 
scarcely more than a hundred yards from our cottage, 
I can certainly find a companion,” I answer, but she 
shakes her head and laughs. 

“ Don’t attempt it. I warn you. You cannot find 
a really desirable one,” she declares, thrusting the toe 
of one tiny slipper below the hem of her lavender 
wrapper, as she settles her head more comfortably on 
the crimson shawl folded beneath it for a pillow. “You 
may find old Mrs. Leftwich, and her rose-colored wools 
and gold spectacles ; you may succeed in catching the 
bald-headed Socrates, who collects geological specimens 
when the thermometer stands at ninety degrees Fah- 
renheit ; only you must take an ear-trumpet along. For 
the rest, your choice of companionship will lie between 
about threescore nurses and as many sick babies ; 
I’ll wager my best bonnet these are the only beings, 
except ourselves, who are so unromantically unfash- 
ionable as to be awake at this hour in the afternoon. 
You would best stay where you are and listen to logic, 
given in moderately good English ; it is far more com- 
prehensible than African.” 

“ I believe you are right,” I reply. “ Bad enough is 
often exchanged for worse.” 

“ For instance,” she says, “ we are enjoying tolerable 
comfort here on our moss-bank, — a comfort which must 
soon be exchanged for a humbug of a hop at the hotel.” 

The pretty foot is crushed into the velvety moss as 
the owner attempts to emphasize her weariness of the 
round of summer gayety. 

“ What is the programme for this evening?” I ask. 

“ Cards in the parlor, dancing in the ball-room, flirt- 


250 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


ing on the galleries, gossip among the old folks, colic 
among the babies.” 

She counts off the five necessary evils on the tips 
of her fingers, and laughs as I ask which act of the 
drama she proposes to do. 

“That is unsettled,” she says. “If I dance, the 
weaver of rose wool will charge her battery of church 
folks upon me ; if I play cards, the dancers will slander 
me by swearing in pretty society fashion that I had no 
partner ; being past the colicky age, I suppose I shall 
call down the entire framework of social indignation 
upon my unholy head by flirting with that handsome 
young officer we met this morning, just lately from the 
War Department. I am certain to be abused no matter 
what part I take ; humanity is so horribly alike.” 

She draws the red shawl back to its place under her 
head, folds her hands upon her brow, and lies, like a 
careless child, watching the fleecy feather-clouds float- 
ing above the valley. After a while she says, — 

“ Eead a little \ read something tender, and low, and 
sweet.” 

I open the book of miscellaneous poems on my lap, 
and commence slowly turning the pages. 

“ Shall I read the ‘ Embarkation of the Exiles’ ?” I ask. 

“ No,” she replies ; “ the afternoon is too bewitch- 
ingly indolent even for the ‘ tumult and stir of embark- 
ing.’ Eead me ‘Locksley Hall’; that contains just 
enough of the melancholy madness to harmonize with 
the drowsy hopelessness of the day.” 

I turn to the poem and read. The verses do seem 
wonderfully in tune with nature : 

“ In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove ; 

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 
love.” 


CLOVD-B UILDINO. 


251 


She is smiling into the vagueness beyond the deep- 
ening mountains ; but, as I read on, the smile fades and 
she closes her eyes. 

“ As the husband, so the wife is ; thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee 
down.” 

When, at length, the farewell to Locksley Hall is said, 
the fair listener is breathing so softly I close the book, 
and noiselessly wait until the afternoon dream shall 
have ended. 

A low whistle comes from the rock below, but, watch- 
ing the red billows gathering in the west, I do not no- 
tice until a pebble falls at my feet, and I look to see 
Lincoln Crawford beckoning me. I rise and carefully 
pick my way to the projection upon which he is sitting, 
overlooking the orchard-lands of the valley below. 

“ You made a safe departure from drowsy Dido ?” 
he says, as I take a seat beside him. “ I sat here list- 
ening to your reading, which, of course, I could not 
hear; but I will wager my expectation of an heirship 
that you tolled her off to sleep with ‘Locksley Hall.’ ” 

“Why?” I ask, laughing. 

“The natural fitness of things,” he replies; “the 
afternoon is deliciously dreamy and indolent, and the 
poem, to say the least of it, is not refreshing. No, you 
need not feel called upon to defend it,” he continues, as 
I am about to speak. “ I admit the heresy. I called 
you to see a picture, but you must wait a moment; they 
will round the circle of the road soon, just beyond that 
huge rock on the next ledge below us. There I there 
they come ; now name them.” 

“ He, she, or it ?” I reply. “ Is your picture of the 
plural number ?” 

“ Look and see,” he says. 


252 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The remnant of a jaded and otherwise dilapidated 
horse comes in sight ; loose-jointed and feeble, he makes 
slowly the laborious pull up the mountain, blissfully 
unmindful of the load of youth and health he is carry- 
ing. A young man occupies the saddle, and a pretty 
mountain girl is seated behind him ; she steadies her- 
self in her position by the right arm, which is around 
the foremost rider’s waist ; he is evidently enjoying the 
steadying process to the full. 

“What do you call that?” asks Lincoln. 

“ Outrageous,” I reply. 

“ No such thing,” he declares. “ It is common sense, 
kindness to animals, and sentiment combined. Why, 
can’t you understand the young couple’s method of 
travelling saves a saddle, a horse, and a hug?” 

At this moment a bell sounds from the upper height, 
and I rise at once. 

“ There is the first bell ; we must go !” 

“ You are catching the rush fever,” he says, rising 
and following me up the steep. “ Are you so very near 
starvation ?” 

“ It must be the water,” I reply, hesitatingly. 

“ To be sure it is the water,” he says ; “ all extra ad- 
dition in the way of appetite is due to the water. 

“Well, Dido, your captain left you. I hope your 
ladyship had a pleasant nap.” 

Blanche, to whom ho is speaking, is sitting on the 
moss-bank rubbing her eyes. 

“ Did I hear a bell ?” she asks. 

“ I suspect you did ; the supper-bell rang, and it is 
something that is usually heard.” 

“ I thought my ear did not deceive me ; why, I 
could hear that old bell in my dreams, calling to — to — 
oh, to supper.” 


CLO UD-B UILDINO. 


253 


“You two aro growing most unfashionably healthy 
of appetite,” says Lincoln, extending a hand to assist 
her to rise. 

“ The water, dear, the water,” she replies, laughing 
merrily. “ That is strictly the thing, and settles em- 
phatically the idea of vulgarity attendant upon a 
healthy appetite. Lincoln, jump down and gather a 
bouquet of heliotrope and dead-white roses for me ; pick 
some of those blood-red, murderous-looking blossoms 
for Nell, they harmonize so handsomely with the lus- 
treless rose of her evening dress ; and be sure there is 
not a green leaf in the bouquet. The man who planned 
and perfected this cottage and flower-garden deserves 
to sleep in marble.” 

Lincoln steps from the low, vine-wrapped gallery 
which extends entirely around the cottage, and is soon 
bending among the dwarf rose-bushes and crimson 
geranium-blooms. 

“ What a pity to allow that greenhouse to go to 
destruction !” continues Blanche. “ However, I am 
abundantly grateful to the owners of the cottage for 
providing even the few plants out there for our enjoy- 
ment. But, come, Nell, he will bring the flowers to us, 
and we must be getting up a toilet ; this is our first 
evening at the hotel, you know, and that fact calls for 
special care in costume. Beg pardon, Mr. Courtney; 
I did not see you lying in the hammock. Pray lie still ; 
we are going right on : 

‘ She loves the sun and sky, 

She loves the song and dance ; 

The groves of sunny Spain, 

The plains of La Belle France.’ ” 

Chatting, laughing, singing, she leads the way into 
our pleasant little bedroom looking toward the moun- 
22 


254 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


tains ; soon I see her kneeling at Mrs. Crawford’s chair, 
and the words she is saying come to me : 

“Yes, I am getting strong again in the dear old Ten- 
nessee mountain-land ; it is so good to be here, so good.” 


CHAPTEK XXIY. 

TRUMPS. 

“ And yet in a bantering way, 

As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, 

I’ll venture a bit of a song 

To tell what they do at the Springs.” 

“ Let’s peep into the parlor ; the dancing does not 
commence until half-past eight.” It is Lincoln who 
offers the suggestion as we are leaving the dining-room, 
having finished our earl}^ tea. 

We pass down the gallery between the rows of gen- 
tlemen who are gathered for the purpose of indulging 
in the feminine amusement, gossip. 

“Do you ever grow serious enough to study the 
people around you ?” asks Lincoln. 

“Never,” I reply. 

“Of course not,” he says; “you are a woman. 
Women never look beyond the feathers upon their 
neighbor’s bonnet ; to-morrow you will be remembered 
for the dress you wear this evening, pale pink and 
crimson roses. Nobody will care to investigate as to 
your qualities of mind or your goodness of heart ; these 
are secondary matters in the Kingdom of Fashion.” 

“Thank you,” I reply; “you are not sparing with 
your candor. Mountain air doesn’t seem to agree with 
you. You are growing cynical.” 


TRUMPS. 


255 


“ Then I shall forego all further indulgence at once,” 
he replies. I do not admire cynicism. Let’s go upon 
the ‘ Lookout’ ; 1 see your brother is there. Do you 
know the lady who is with him?” 

“ Yes j I met her yesterday, half-way down the bluff, 
below the Lookout : she is a slave to wild-flowers and 
Jean Ingelow, — a regular watering-place heroine, — 
sentimental, delicate, aDsthetic.” 

“ Then,” he says, “ I do not envy Courtney his even- 
ing. Ugh I these would-be delicate women remind me 
of snakes, — cold, clammy ” 

“Hush!” I exclaim. “One would suppose you a 
woman-hater, and that is something inflnitely more 
disgusting than an imaginary invalid. Come farther 
this way and let us stay until the moon rises.” 

“Miss Courtney,” he replies, “the moon, strange 
to say, exercises a kind of independent pleasure as to 
her place of rising, and usually prefers to make her 
appearance from the east. I would suggest you turn 
your face in exactly the opposite direction from that 
in which you are expecting her Ladyship. Only — I 
am sorry to tell you — she will not rise for two hours 
yet, and in the mean time if you will come to the 
parlor we can find something entertaining in the way 
of a game of euchre.” 

“ Isn’t it time for the dancing to begin ?” I ask. 
“ There is no pleasure in looking on at four people 
scrambling over a game of cards.” 

“ Do you care so much for dancing ?” he asks ; and 
I reply,— 

“ Ho ; not more, I suppose, than other people. Why 
do you ask ?” 

“ Oh, girls usually seem to consider it an unpardon- 
able sin to miss a waltz or a gallop ; they take the pro- 


256 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

gramme from Alpha to Omega,” he answers. “ If,” he 
continues, “you really do not object I should like for 
you to come and see how euchre is played these days, 
— and the people who play it.” 

We take our way through the crowd still loafing 
upon the gallery, and, entering the parlor, are soon en- 
gaged in watching the progress of the game of cards 
being played in a distant part of the room. 

A young lady in a blood-red dress of some light 
texture is furiously demanding the deal, and vigorously 
chewing wax. 

“ It’s my deal,” she cries ; “ you ain’t going to cheat 
me out of it, ‘ if the Court knows herself.’ ” 

“ ‘ And I think she do,’” exclaims the lady’s partner, 
a young man whose only object in life at this moment 
seems to be a determination to eat the bit of a stick 
toothpick he has brought from the dining-room, and to 
catch the exact sparkle of the diamonds in his partner’s 
ear-rings every time “ the Court” tosses her head, 
which she is continually doing. 

“What’s trumps?” asks the owner of the ear-rings. 

“Diamonds,” replies her partner; and the oW gen- 
tleman at the end of the table — they call him Profes- 
sor — adjusts his spectacles and cautiously examines his 
hand. His partner, a blonde young lady dressed in 
white, drops the right bower upon the Professor’s left, 
so engrossed is she in watching the progress of a quiet 
fiirtation going on in another corner of the parlor. 

“ Our trick !” cries the Queen of Diamonds, the young 
lady in red, as she vigorously chews her wax. 

“ Our deal, too,” says the Knight of the Toothpick. 

“ What’s trumps ?” asks his partner. 

“ Diamonds,” is the answer. 

The Queen of Diamonds clinches the wax between 


TRUMPS. 


257 


her pretty teeth, catches one end of it, and ropes it in 
the direction of the Professor’s head, then laughs aloud 
at that gentleman’s effort to withdraw the threatened 
member beyond the danger-line. 

The gentleman on the other side takes a savage bite 
at the toothpick, the Professor’s partner takes advan- 
tage of the confession to steal a glance at the couple 
in the corner, — the Queen of Diamonds draws the wax 
again into her mouth inch by inch, with the assistance 
of her tongue. A half-dozen small boys, keenly alive 
to any new amusement, gather round to investigate the 
cause of the fun. 

“ Whose deal ?” asks the Diamond-Queen. 

The Professor quietly shuffles the cards, and while 
he is dealing them out the Queen of Diamonds rolls 
her wax vigorously between her palms until it is nicely 
rounded, presses it into a thin wafer-like sheet, lays it 
over her lips, and while the small boys breathlessly 
await the explosion, draws in her breath, and — “pop!” 
the explosion comes. The boys dance a hornpipe, the 
Professor jumps from his chair, the cards fall upon the 
floor, the young man opposite laughs until he swallows 
his toothpick, and the Queen of Diamonds quietly 
sticks the wax under the edge of the table. The boys 
move off, having noted where the treasure is hidden ; 
most of the ladies deposit their chewing-gum along the 
facings of the doors ; there is quite a colony of the 
little brown daubs sometimes. The boys find the space 
behind the right ear the most convenient place, but the 
Queen of Diamonds prefers the table ; and, ignorant of 
the designs upon her property, she turns again to the 
game. 

“ What’s trumps?” 

“ Hearts.” 


r 


22 * 


258 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The Professor’s partner looks toward the quiet cor- 
ner, leads the left bower, which is quickly captured by 
the right, and the Queen of Diamonds goes into rap- 
tures. 

“ Grood for you, pard !” she exclaims. “ Shake !” 

The “shake” finished, the Queen continues : “That 
leaves me the ace, the king, and a ten-spot. The Pro- 
fessor ain’t got nothing ; I seen his hand. Count us 
two : we made a clean sweep.” 

“No,” cries the Professor ; “ let us play the hand out. 
My partner may have something.” 

“ Oh, to be sure,” she replies. “ I forgot you had a 
partner. Play, Miss Clara.” 

“ Don’t lead a trump,” cautions the Professor. 

“No talking ’cross the board,” cries the Queen. “I 
ain’t going to play if he talks ’cross the board ; there !” 

The irate lady throws her cards upon the table, 
pushes back her chair, tosses her head until the dia- 
monds fairly dance. Miss Clara volunteers an explana- 
tion ; she didn’t have any trumps to lead, so really 

“ No such thing!” cries the Queen of Diamonds. “ I 
ain’t going to play when folks cheat.” 

“What’s trumps, anyhow?” asks the Knight of the 
Toothpick. 

“ Clubs I” roars the Professor, and the party adjourns 
in “ most admired disorder.” 

Later, when Lincoln and I enter the long ball-room, 
the Queen of Diamonds is fiying down the hall in the 
arms of her late partner, to the tune of the “ Eacquet.” 
I turn to Lincoln, and, nodding toward the couple, 
laughingly suggest that “ diamonds are still trumps.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” is his answer. “ Look. 
I believe hearts are trumps always.” 

My gaze follows his to the centre of the hall, where 


TRUMPS. 


259 


Blanche is standing under the chandelier. Her lustre- 
less white brocade falls in heavy folds about the tall, 
slender figure ; her arms are bare but for the long lace 
gloves reaching to the shoulders. 

She wears a bouquet of white roses, and the decollete 
bodice exposes the graceful, perfect curve of the pretty 
neck. The dead whiteness of the costume is relieved 
only by the golden waves of hair coiled high, and held 
in place by a long, slender dagger, whose hilt is set 
with three large topaz gems. 

“ Blanche is a queen,” says Lincoln. “ I wonder how 
she contrives to give her hair that crown-like twist ; 
and the blaze from the topaz dagger exactly completes 
the effect. She is a sovereign among her subjects. Ah ! 
she has captured Ellersley.” 

He says this as the object of his admiration walks 
off with the handsome officer, whose peace she had 
lately threatened. 

Lincoln’s eyes follow the couple moving gracefully 
among the waltzers. 

Do you love her so much?” I ask, meaning Blanche, 
and he answers, — 

‘‘Hext to my mother, more than any creature living.” 

I think of Bob, dear old brother, and unconsciously 
I sigh. Lincoln gives me a quick, surprised glance ; I 
meet it with a laugh, and he says, — 

This is our waltz, — come.” 

Together we float to the music of one of those old 
German waltzes, which are so sad and sweet and 
tender they are more like dreams than dances. 

Later, other gentlemen claim me, and I see him no 
more. 

At eleven o’clock Major Crawford touches me on the 
shoulder. 


260 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND, 

“We are leaving now: ask the gentleman to excuse 
you,” he says. 

“ With the major’s permission, the gentleman would 
be pleased to see me home.” The permission being 
granted, I am soon saying good-night under the cedars 
at the door of our little cottage, and my new friend is 
hurrying back to the hotel. 

I do not feel the least fear as I cross the vine-covered 
veranda ; the others will soon arrive, I know. I make 
the first turn safely. The vines are less close at the 
next; a stray gleam of moonlight stealing through 
them discloses a shadow moving to and fro. Some one 
is in the hammock. 

“ Eobert ?” I call. 

“ It is I, Miss Courtney,” says Lincoln. “ Don’t bo 
frightened ; are you alone ?” 

“Yes,” I reply. “ How you startled me! I did not 
know you had come.” 

“ Yes,” he saj^s ; “ the dance became monotonous, and 
I came home, intending to return for you ; but my cigar 
had a soporific influence, and I forgot all about you.” 

“ Thank you,” I reply. “ I did not, fortunately, re- 
quire your services. I had other company. Will you 
give me a match ?” 

He goes to get the matches, and, while waiting his 
return, I part the thick apricot-vines and stand a mo- 
ment watching the moonlight flooding the distant 
mountains. A purple passion-flower brushes my face : 
pressing the cool, dewy blossom against my cheek I 
sigh, thinking of Lincoln Crawford’s words, — “Next 
to my mother, I love her more than any living crea- 
ture.” And then I think of Bob, — poor Bob. 

“You did not fulfil^the engagement to see the moon 
rise,” says a voice in my ear ; and I reply, — 


TO LOVER^S LEAP. 


261 


I was otherwise engaged, and forgot all about it.” 
Then I turn and leave him, as a merry voice says 
‘‘pleasant dreams” to Eobert’s “good-night,” and 
Blanche’s light step sounds upon the gallery. 

Lincoln was right. “ Hearts are trumps.” 


CHAPTEE XXY. 

TO LOVER'S LEAP. 

“The hills 

Rockribbed and ancient as the sun, the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods.” 

“ Miss McChesney, will you join our party ?” 

Blanche looks up from the basket of colored yarns 
she is sorting for the old lady who alwaj^s spends the 
forenoons in the hotel parlor crocheting. The rose- 
colored zephyrs are indispensable at watering-places ; 
they are a veritable necessity, forming as they do the 
link between idleness and industry. They are not 
work, oh, no ; the most fastidious can adopt the bright 
woollen yarns with safety; they impart the idea of 
industry without actually making one appear vulgarly 
domestic. They are an institution, though of late 
years they are given over entirely to the elderly ladies, 
and have proved a wonderful aid to the society gossip 
which those dear old dames, who spend their summers 
at watering-places, find absolutely necessary to diges- 
tion. 

“Miss McChesney, will you join our party?” The 
question is repeated. 


262 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ Don’t go,” whispers a near admirer, who has been 
watching the winding of the red, blue, and orange balls 
for half an hour, enjoying at the same time a battle of 
words between Miss McChesney and a young banker 
from New Orleans. 

“ I am delightfully comfortable. Captain Ellersley,” 
she says, more from courtesy than any wish to remain 
where she is. 

“We will make you more so,” he replies, his hand 
upon the back of her chair. 

“ But you see I am not prepared for a ramble,” point- 
ing toward the train of her white cashmere wrapper 
lying on the carpet. 

“We will wait until you exchange it for a walking- 
suit,” he replies, smiling. 

“ Almost thou persuadest me,” she laughs ; and he 
says.,— 

“ I trust it will require no great effort to entirely per- 
suade you.” 

“ Say, Ellersley, you get out,” exclaims the Louis- 
ianian. “ There are other ladies by the score ; why 
need you break up a pleasant party for a tiresome stroll 
among the rocks and briers ?” 

“Oh, one doesn’t go to the springs for conversa- 
tion,” says the captain ; “ scratches and bruises are the 
trophies we carry back to the city. Will you not 
come, Miss McChesney ? there will be quite a pleasant 
party.” 

“ Where is it you are going?” she asks. 

“ To Lover’s Leap,” he replies. 

“Oh, captain,” she exclaims, “you must excuse me. 
I will go anywhere you ask me except to a Lover’s 
Leap ; I have sworn eternal enmity to all such desper- 
ate performances. I tell you as a friend, in confidence 


TO LOVEWS LEAP. 


263 


of course, they are frauds, the worst kind; there are 
too many by half. Besides, who ever heard of a lover 
ever leaping at anything beyond a good bank ac- 
count ?” 

Every one laughs at the scepticism except the two 
old ladies busy with their crocheting, and the young 
banker, who considers the dart “aimed at Ms branch.” 

“ I’ll risk my position in the First National of New 
Orleans Miss McChesney never had a bank account of 
her own with which to attempt a leap,” he says, by 
way of defence or joke, we are unable to determine. 

Will she throw the crochet-basket in his face ? I 
wonder, as I see the blood mount to her cheek. No ; 
her answer is entirely without passion. 

“ Then the First National Bank will lose its captiv- 
ating cashier,” she says, “ for I once blushed behind 
that alluring, but unreliable, passport to respectability.” 

“ Ah 1 you must be older than I supposed, to have 
already squandered a fortune in ‘ riotous living,’ ” he 
says, with a sarcastic laugh. 

Her patience is gone. I know it by the manner in 
which she presses the ball of yellow yarn between her 
palms. 

“ No, no, you misunderstand,” she says. “ I was not 
permitted that pleasure ; my fortune went ” 

It is embarrassing, to say the least. 

“Well?” says the Louisianian: “it ‘went’ — which 
way ?” 

“ The way of the cashier,” she says, as she rises, 
quickly places the basket of wools beside the owner, 
and, taking Captain Ellersley’s arm, sweeps from the 
room, enjoying to the full the laugh raised at the ex- 
pense of the confused cashier. 

Even the old ladies stop their crocheting long enough 


264 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

to wipe the moisture from their glasses while they join 
in the laugh. 

“N'ell, are you going with us to Lover’s Leap?” 
asks Robert, through the window near which I am 
standing. 

“ Yes,” I reply. 

“Well, it is time to get ready. You are not going 
to wear that ?” pointing to my pink morning dress. 

“Scarcely,” I answer, going to join him on the 
gallery ; and together we go toward our cottage. 

We pass into the little vine-covered porch; the 
foliage is heavy and close ; we cannot see the form 
stretched under the chestnut-tree on the outside. 

“ Robert,” I say, suddenly laying my hand upon my 
brother’s breast, “ do you love me ?” 

“Why, Nell,” he says, “are you crazy? What has 
come into your foolish little head?” 

For answer I throw my arms about his neck and 
sigh. 

He gently strokes my hair, as he had always done 
since I was a wee bit of a baby and sobbed myself to 
sleep in his arms. 

“What is it, my little sister?” he asks. “I should 
be sorry to think you kept a grief from your brother.” 

He takes my face between his hands and kisses my 
trembling lips. 

“ What is it, little one ?” he repeats. 

And then I tell him all my fear — my certainty — that 
Lincoln Crawford loves Blanche, for he has told me 
so, and my dread that he should also love her. He 
hears me through, his arms around me while I hurry 
through my story. When I have finished he says,— 

“ So long as I have my sister’s entire heart I shall 
not be wholly desolate ; but you must remember that 


TO LOVER'S LEAP. 


265 


Crawford regards Miss McChesney as a dear sister. 
She has been one to him. As for the rest, we will not 
climb the tiresome hill until we come to it. Run on 
now and change your dress. I will wait for you on the 
west gallery, where Ellersley is waiting for Blanche.” 

He kisses me again and leaves me. 

As I turn to go to my room, feeling almost happy 
again, I meet Lincoln. He lifts his hat and says “ Good- 
morning” with chilling politeness. I stand still a 
moment, embarrassed ; then, fully convinced he has 
heard my conversation with Robert, I sweep him 
a cool courtesy and pass on. 

Blanche is charming in her soft, gray wool; the 
simplicity of the costume would have been severe on 
any other wearer, but she looks only more queenly 
in the close-fitting jacket with its broad collar and 
cuffs, and vest of fluffy gray plush ; and she is making 
sad havoc with Captain Ellersley’s affections, as she 
stands half-way up the bluff and holds her hands to 
him to draw her up to the rock upon which he is 
standing. 

“Ah, that is a fine view,” she exclaims, lifting the 
field-glass to her eyes. “Captain, does the valley 
always have that misty, uncertain appearance ?” 

“Hot always,” he replies; “sometimes it is clear as 
a freshly- washed rose. Take care. Miss McChesney, 
your foot is almost upon the verge of that rock.” 

He puts out his hand to stay her ; she looks up and 
smiles. 

“ I suppose I am careless,” she says ; “ but do you 
know these mountains attract me ? That vague haze 
below us seems to beckon me. I love it ; the moun- 
tains, the mist, the gloom, the glory, and all.” 

M 23 


266 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

She waves her hand toward the purplish peaks as 
she speaks, and soon Captain Ellersley leads her to the 
jutting mass of rocks above, whither the rest of us soon 
follow. 

“ And this is Lover’s Leap ?” she asks. 

“ Yes,” is the reply. 

“And just as I predicted, it is a failure,” she 
declares. 

“ No, no,” cry half a dozen voices in chorus. 

“ Ah, but it is, and I can prove it to the satisfaction 
of every one present,” she insists. “Any lover with 
•half a mind — they don’t usually have so much — must 
know that to leap from this point he must necessarily 
fall upon that ledge about three feet below, then he 
must give a plunge which will throw him upon the 
next projection, and so on half-way to the bottom. 
Now, there maj^ be romance in a broad, bold leap into 
eternity, — though I doubt it, mind you, — but when a 
man takes his exit from this world by the vulgar pro- 
cess of bumping, I feel justified in declaring, with my 
limited experience in that line, that the foolishness is 
pretty well bumped out of him before he touches 
bottom. 

“Now, I suggest,” she continues, when the laughter 
her speech elicited has subsided, — “ I suggest, that from 
this day on, ‘ Lover’s Leap’ be erased from the cata- 
logue of romances, and the name be changed to ‘ Fool’s 
Jump’ as one more appropriate.” 

She talks on in her merry, careless way until the 
captain leads her down to see the spring, which he de- 
clares is quite a natural curiosity and well worth the 
trouble of finding. 

The day is beautiful ; the far-away mountains hold 
us with an undefinable charm ; the crowd leaves me. 


TO LOVER'S LEAP. 


2G7 


and I am not sorry to be alone. Silence has ten thou- 
sand tongues. I sit upon the century- wasted cliff, dream- 
ing of the mountains beyond that rose-blended and 
blue gauze work which veils the mysterious, unknown 
summits. 

“ Miss Courtney, your brother asked me to help you 
down,” says Lincoln Crawford in my ear. 

“ Thank my brother, and say I do not wish to come 
down,” I reply, without moving my gaze from , the 
distant peaks. 

Without further words he takes a seat upon the rock 
by my side. For a moment neither speaks ; the noise 
of laughter below comes to us faintly and unheeded, as 
of something far away, out of our lives. 

“ I suppose I ought to tell you I overheard your con- 
versation with your brother this morning,” he says at 
length, picking a fern-leaf from the rock where it has 
dropped from the bouquet at my throat. 

“ There is no need to tell me ] I know it,” I reply, 
without looking at him. He is so provoking, so dis- 
honorable, so — almost — despicable. 

“You did not see me, I suppose?” he asks. 

Then I turn upon him. 

“Lincoln Crawford, I should like to say this much 
to you : I never give public exhibition of my affection 
for my brother ; I never stoop to fraud or insincerity 
in any form ; and I do not listen to conversations not 
intended for me.” 

He smiles in his cool, aggravating way, and tenderly 
presses the fern-leaf between his white palms. 

“If I supposed for a moment that you thought or 
could believe me guilty of so mean an act, I should 
lift m}^ hat to you this moment in a farewell as lasting 
as these mountains,” he says, after a pause. “ But you 


268 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

know better, and I miss your company when you get 
angry enough to avoid me. There is no one to climb 
and ride with me, — that is, no one but gentlemen, and 
that is no pleasure.” 

This is nearer asking pardon than I have ever known 
him come ; I know it cost him something, and — well, it 
may be the compliment that does it — I hesitate, then 
extend my hand. He takes it a moment in his, smiles, 
and drops it. 

Then Eobert calls to us to come down, and we rise 
to obey the summons. When we at length stand 
among our friends, Lincoln whispers, — 

“ With whom did you come ?” 

“With the red-headed man from Michigan,” I an- 
swer. 

“ Eed hair doesn’t grow in Michigan,” he says ; “ it 
is strictly a Tennessee product. Miss McChesney, do 
be careful, that green rock is treacherous ; greenness 
always is.” 

The young lady is standing upon a natural platform 
under the shadow of a deeply excavated blulf, a large 
smooth basin has been hewn by the constant wearing 
of water in the stone platform where the spring trickles 
down from the overhanging blulf. A short, stout lad- 
der leads to the basin, and a number of ladies are stand- 
ing within the crypt upon the platform. 

It is almost noon, and the summer noons are hot, 
even upon the mountains, where there is always a 
breath of pure air. The sun stands almost directly 
above this rock grotto, yet there is always the delicious- 
ness, a freshness of June-time about the place. 

“ If I had a lover, I should like for him to bring mo 
to this grotto and tell his love,” I venture. 

“ Ho, no,” cries Captain Ellersley ; “ these grim old 


TO LOVER'S LEAP. 


269 


rocks frowning down upon you would chill the young 
man’s ardor. Miss Courtney, I advise a sunnier 
trysting-place.” 

“ Escaping the chill, the constant drip of the water, 
to say nothing of the moisture, would certainly throw a 
damper over the young man’s enthusiasm,” says Blanche. 

“ I should like to hear the story under a dogwood- 
tree, while the wild bees are humming in the white 
blossoms,” says the sentimental admirer of Jean In- 
gelow, who has been invited to make one of the party. 

“ Take your death of cold,” says Lincoln. “ Log- 
wood blooms entirely too early for love-making ; there 
is danger of a frost.” 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” exclaims Eobert, “it is 
twelve o’clock. All who have dinner toilets to make 
had best be moving.” 

We rise as by mutual agreement; the suggestion of 
dinner at a watering-place will move the most listless 
to action. 

Lincoln whispers to me as the party moves otf, — 

“ You don’t care for toilets, and there is a lovely 
line of bluffs just beyond that sedge-field ; would you 
like to see it? We can get dinner three hours yet.” 

“Yes,” I reply, “but wait a moment until the rest 
go down upon the other side of the cliff ; they will not 
miss us then.” 

“ What if they do ; who cares ?” he asks. 

“ I do. Only this forenoon I heard the dear old 
Christian wearer of woollen stuffs, whose gray hair 
should teach her charity, if nothing else, declare it was 
a burning shame the way girls were allowed to roam 
over these mountains without a chaperon ; her chil- 
dren were never allowed such liberty, and they are all 
decently married women now.” ' 

23 * 


270 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


“ So they are,” declares Lincoln ; “ and one of them, 
at least, is making up for the privilege denied in youth. 
She is flirting with a vengeance now; taking moonlight 
walks and afternoon strolls while her husband is fight- 
ing mosquitoes in I^’ew Orleans. Married women are 
always subject to more criticisms than young ladies. 
Come, the others are out of sight before this. We 
must climb this fence, first thing. Modern authorities 
declare it a mistaken courtesy to assist a lady over a 
fence, therefore I turn my back. Jump ! Are you over? 
Well, watch out for snakes and seed-ticks, — and follow 
me. Wait a moment; ‘you have caught a beau,’ as 
the children say ; A — B — C, — there, it is gone. I shall 
keep a lookout for Mr. C.” 

He puts his foot upon the twig which clings to my 
woollen skirt, and then laughing, chatting, seldom 
agreeing, often quarrelling, we pass into the open sedge- 
grass, and on to the long, billowy line of bluffs stretch- 
ing away, with the orchards and vineyards crowding 
in uncertainty at its base. 


CHAPTEE XXYI. 

STOLEN FRUIT. 


“ No eye to watch, no tongue to wound us j 
All earth forgot and all heaven around us.'* 


“Hell, where is your brother?” 

“Lying under the chestnut-tree fast asleep on the 
grass, with the bees buzzing about bim as if be carried 
a greenhouse in his hat,” I reply. 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


271 


“ Well,” — she stands before the open window, through 
which the afternoon sun is streaming with glaring de- 
fiance to the entire mountain, — “ Major Crawford has 
gone with Herr Hage, to help him calculate the in- 
coming revenues from his apiary; Mrs. Crawford is 
doing penance in the way of paying a long-dreaded call 
upon the weaver of pretty wools at the hotel ; Lincoln is 
lying in the hammock reading Carlyle, — miserable taste 
for hot weather, I admit, but a privilege we Americans 
will exercise. It is unbearably warm in-doors, and 
unmistakably dull. Let’s ‘ shut up shop’ and go 
fishing.” 

“Fishing?” I drop the book I have been reading 
and stare at her in amazement. “ Blanche McChesney, 
do you know it requires hooks, and poles, and lines, and 
bait, to fish ?” 

“Yes, I have heard so,” she answers; “then I have 
heard that for some fishermen bent pins and Ho. 20 
sewing cotton fastened to a walking-stick does quite as 
effectual work as finer tackle. At any rate we will 
catch as many trout with bent pins as if we had hooks 
of finest steel and all the ugly worms that ever wrig- 
gled from a patent fishing-rod. Get your hat ; we will 
say we are going for a stroll, if you dislike fishing.” 

“ I always like to have something to show for my 
labor,” I reply, “ and 1 know the fish would be a fail- 
ure. Where will we go ?” 

“Oh, somewhere; we are becoming indolent, senti- 
mental-looking, with so much style and so little free- 
dom.” 

I have my hand upon the door when she calls, — 

“ If we go that way Lincoln will see us, and either 
insist on going with us or else forbid our going alto- 
gether.” 


272 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ What are we to do ? Eobert is guarding the other 
exit.” 

“ But he is asleep, you said.” 

“ Yes, so he is ; but he sleeps like Argus, with an eye 
open.” 

“ Then we must go through the window,” she de- 
clares, leaning out to examine the distance to the 
ground. “We can make it easily. Give me a chair.” 

She leans forward and deposits the chair upon the 
outside. “ Now for it ; I will go first ; keep my skirts 
clear of that catch. All right, I am safe ; come on.” 

She stands upon the outside, laughing and calling to 
me to follow. 

“ Hush !” I whisper, my feet upon the window-sill ; 
“ I believe I heard some one laugh.” 

“Ho, you did not,” she laughs: “it was spirits; the 
graveyard is just over here, you know. Be careful; 
oh, there goes your slipper I How, you are safe; bo 
still while I get the slipper for you. 

“Hell,” she says, “we should have worn shoes, I am 
afraid ; we will be terribly scratched,” as I thrust my 
foot into the flipper I had dropped in the endeavor to 
touch the chair. 

“ Too late now,” I reply. “ I have jmt ‘my hand to 
the plough,’ or rather my foot to the chair, and I have 
no thought of turning back. What shall we do with 
the chair?” 

“ Throw it in.” 

“ And alarm the house ?” I ask. 

“ Sure enough ; I forgot,” she says. “ Leave it alone, 
close the shutter and let’s be oif, around the back way, 
down the road, so we will miss the hotel folks.” 

How like two rogues we feel as we steal out the gate, 
past the row of cottages, noiselessly and swiftly, along 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


273 


unfrequented paths, taking cross-cuts and queer turns 
in order to avoid meeting any chance guest who may 
be out for a ramble ! 

“ Blanche?” 

“ Nell ?” 

I stop still as a recollection of what I have done 
crosses my mind. 

“ I left my jewel-box open on the dresser, and my 
diamonds in it. Suppose some one saw us getting out 
at the window and should go in the same way.” 

“ That is hardly probable; Lincoln would hear them,” 
she replies. “ Besides, the mountain folks are very 
honest, though I am satisfied no one saw us. Still, I 
wish we had not left that chair so invitingly near the 
window.” 

“ What shall we do ?” I ask. 

“We ought to go back,” she replies. 

“ But we are not going,” I declare. “ Come on, 
Blanche; a good long ramble alone through these 
glorious old mountain forests is worth every jewel in 
the box. How dimly mysterious these pine groves 
look, suggestive of spirits !” 

We plunge into the dense growth of pine, through 
which scarcely a gleam of sunshine penetrates. Cool, 
deliciously cool, and sweet with the odor of the resin- 
iferous growth ; down through the narrow shaded 
path, above which the plumy boughs meet in a fanciful 
archway ; on under the shadowy trees we pass until 
at length we come into the open but not frequented 
highway. The pine growth becomes less heavy; 
indeed, only a stunted spruce now and then, a patch 
of white pine or yellow resin wood crowded among 
the birch, and chestnut, and black gum, is the only re- 
minder of the dark forest. 


274 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“Let us stop awhile and rest, ISTell,” says Blanche. 
“ We cannot find a lovelier, lonelier spot.” 

We throw ourselves upon the grass and fall to 
dreaming, as we always do when free to enjoy nature 
alone. 

Silence is study to some natures. It has been hot 
and listless, even in our air-built cottage upon the over- 
hanging bluffs. The light wind stirs the boughs above 
uS, and shows the blue sky through the quivering 
foliage. A low, monotonous hum of water hidden 
somewhere down among the laurel-bushes comes to us, 
a drowsy melody, alluring to dreamland. A buzzard 
describes in a graceful, floating motion a semicircle 
above the tree-tops. 

“ What a deliciously lazy day !” says Blanche. “ If I 
were a physician, I should always recommend moun- 
tain air for nervous people. It surpasses all the physic 
since Adam ; it is the very breath of sleep itself. One 
can readily appreciate the mythological locating of 
Morpheus upon the mountains ; I think the lazy 
dreamer’s abode must be upon this very spot.” 

“ Suppose we find it. I hear the sound of water 
somewhere ; let us follow it,” I suggest. 

She agrees, and we again begin our march, guided by 
the sound of the water, growing nearer, and stronger, 
and more swift. 

“There must be a waterfall; dear I how it roars I 
Nell, Nell! did you ever see anything so beautiful?” 

We part the laurel dense and close, and stand breath- 
less before the great break in the mountain, the tall 
rugged cliffs with the thunderous water tearing over 
them, foaming, leaping, screaming with a choking and 
gurgling sound, to the sharp stones below; the pines 
overlooking from a towering pedestal, the very tallest 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


275 


and hardiest giant oaks and robust birches standing 
sentinel in the shaded, flower-haunted gorge, opening 
away toward the valley lying somewhere among the 
infinite blue of the distant mountains. 

‘‘ Here is life and strength — and noise,” I exclaim, 
“ where we expected to find the abiding-place of the 
dreamy god. We have stumbled upon a clatter that 
would drown the rattle of Yulcan’s workshop, where 
he forges the thunderbolts for Zeus, or the brazen- 
footed bulls for Aetes. I wonder if there is any descent 
below the falls ?” 

“ Hot from this side, I am sure,” replies Blanche. 
“ I believe I can just see the end of a ladder at the foot 
of that immense rock on the other side of the stream ; 
do you see ? Just there by the fall.” 

I stoop to peep behind the falling foam, and ex- 
claim, — 

“ Yes, I see. Blanche, we must cross over and ex- 
plore that deep gorge.” 

“I fear it may be a dangerous exploit unless we had 
some one to catch us in case of a slip ; these rocks are 
dreadfully slippery where the spray has washed them. 
Moreover, there is no way of crossing without getting 
our feet wet.” 

“ That is just where you are mistaken,” I cry. “ A 
hundred yards above us there is part of an old mill- 
dam : I saw it ; it will make a tolerable bridge ; and if 
we fall, is only a foot and a half of water. Ho hesi- 
tating.” I take her by the skirt and drag her after me. 
“ I risked my new and only diamonds for this trip, and 
I intend to feel paid for the loss if they are gone.” 

The old dam, the half-rotted, crumbling old thing, 
does carry us over, and land us in a heap of ivy and 
brush and wild berries ; but we beat the new foes back 


276 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

with two large poplar sticks, and press on toward the 
descent. 

This is a resort of some kind, Nell,” says Blanche, 
as I stoop and try the gray old ladder before venturing 
to trust my weight upon it. “We should never have 
found a ladder if no one comes here.” Then softly 
laying her hand upon my shoulder; “Maybe it’s 
moonshiners ?” 

“ In that case we will ask them to ‘ set ’em up,’ as 
the boys say,” I reply. “ No, Blanche, there was once 
a mill here, and that, I suppose, accounts for the 
ladder.” 

“ But the mill has been gone so long the very timbers 
that held the waters back have rotted,” she argues. 
“ In that case the ladder must be rotten also, and un- 
safe.” 

“No; timber in water decays more rapidly than dry,” 
I explain ; then, — “ Surely I heard some one laugh.” I 
listen a moment, and Blanche says, — 

“ I am not sure, but I always thought that water 
preserves wood.” 

“ No, it doesn’t,” I insist ; “ but I will go down first 
and see if it is safe.” 

“No, you will not,” she says, coming nearer where 
I stand with my foot upon the top round. 

Then we have another warm discussion as to who 
should risk her life first. It ends in my favor, but only 
upon the assertion that if she went down first and the 
ladder should break, I would jump into that roaring 
flood within three feet of us and go with it down the 
gorge. 

I have made half the distance safely, though the old 
rattletrap does shake and squeak and make all manner 
of threats, and my head has begun to grow a little, just 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


277 


a very little dizzy, and I remember wishing some one 
had come along to pick me up when I reach the bottom, 
if I ever do, and then something darts through the 
bushes above and frightens me until my hands shake, 
so that the rusty old nails threaten to loose their hold 
of the wooden rounds I am holding in such a grip. I 
look up and see a squirrel frisking along the edge of 
the cliff, which of course made the noise I heard, only 
the sound seemed to have gone down the bluff on the 
other side, while the squirrel is still nibbling a young 
huckleberry-bush over my head. A thousand things 
pass through my brain before I touch the solid earth 
and look up to cheer my companion. She is half-way 
down the ladder. 

“Were you frightened, Blanche?” I ask when she 
stands by me. 

“JSTo, but you were.” 

“ Indeed I was not,” I reply. 

“ Oh, but I saw your hands trembling, and I started 
immediately to follow you, and you did not so much 
as know I was behind you. How that we are down, 
let’s explore this dark place ; it looks almost weird. 
Hell, suppose we meet a bear in it.” 

“ In that case w^e will be compelled to hear it,” I 
reply, in the effort to appear brave. The place is grand 
and beautiful and dreadful. Our mountains are full of 
such places. We might yell ourselves hoarse in that 
gorge, and the thunderous water would drown our 
cries. But then we have been in worse places and 
nothing ever troubled us; there can be no possible 
danger, so each goes about enjoying herself. 

For almost an hour we hunt the purple wild-flowers 
and tiny mosses hiding between the crevices of the 
damp rocks ; then we find a mossy seat farther down 
24 


278 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

the stream, where, free from the force of its fall, the 
water goes rippling over the bright green-coated stones; 
and here we group our blossoms into a bouquet. Then 
we sit with folded hands watching the water hurry- 
ing on down the mountain, silent, both of us, and 
thoughtful. 

“Nell, what are you thinking?” asks Blanche. 

“ That I should like to pull off my shoes and wade,” 
is my answer. 

“ Why don’t you, then ?” 

“ Will you tell?” 

“ Tell ? I remember the unhappy fate of a bird too 
fond of tattling : eating pomegranate-seeds is no worse 
than wading in a cool mountain stream. JSTo, I shall 
not tell ; but, dear, be sure you cram both stockings in 
your slippers and place them far beyond the water; 
for it is peculiarly characteristic of stockings that they 
invariably get into the water. Hadn’t you best give 
them to me ? Then they will be safe.” 

I slip off the light lisle hose, stuff one into each slip- 
per, and stand barefoot on the cool, moist grass. How 
good it is! How the long-ago, sunny days of child- 
hood come crowding back at sight of the white feet, 
half hidden in the green young grass ; days that had 
been as happy, as thoughtless, full, and pure, and as 
fleeting as the little stream hurrying on toward the 
river ! They too had hurried on, and the heavy years 
of womanhood are falling, fast and faster, like the cata- 
ract just above the stream, and the ripple of childhood 
is lost in the roar of the heavier waters. 

I step into the clear little stream a moment, to allow 
the water to touch my ankles in the old child fashion ; 
a leaf stirs ; I glance at Blanche and catch a restless 
look in her eyes. 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


279 


‘‘ You are uneasy ?” I ask. 

“ Nell, you know they say stolen fruit is best, and all 
that, but I don’t believe a word of it,” she says. “ I 
haven’t felt satisfied all afternoon ; once I thought some 
one followed us ; I am confident I saw a shadow. The 
moving of a leaf, a twig, makes me nervous, and that’s 
the whole truth of the matter. Let’s go home.” 

“Just as soon as I wade to that oak and back,” I 
reply. “ I too have felt nervous, and am not sorry to 
leave.” 

I lift my skirts and start down the stream. 

“ Nell ! Nell ! jump ! run, get on a rock, quick ! there 
he comes, — a horrid snake! Oh-o-o-o!” 

I have a dim consciousness of seeing Blanche spring 
to her feet and wring her hands in terror, but I do not 
notice my slipper drifting down-stream, with a red lisle 
sail floating like a danger signal from the mast of a 
Chinese junk. 

I have just wit enough left to jump, as suggested by 
my terrified companion, upon a large rock in mid- 
stream, gather my skirts closer, and cry “Shoo! get 
out ! Oh-o-o !” emphasizing each exclamation by a vig- 
orous shake of my skirts ; but the snake does not care 
in the least. There he lies, the horrid thing, actually 
stopping to look at me; indeed, I am confident he 
laughs as he opens his jaws, — I know it is to swallow 
me. I give a last despairing shake, and cry, “ Shoo-o-o !” 
while Blanche runs up and down the bank crying and 
throwing rocks at the monster in a way that is quite 
touching and heroic. 

Then, as a climax to our misery, some one laughs 
aloud, and looking around quickly, we encounter Lin- 
coln Crawford standing upon a large boulder almost 
convulsed with mirth. 


280 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Scylla and Charybdis ! I would rather encounter 
single-handed the venomous reptiles sent to devour the 
infant Hercules than Lincoln Crawford, sitting there 
upon the rock enjoying our discomfort. For one mo- 
ment I am tempted to step into the water and allow 
the snake to eat me ; but alas ! the heroic idea of 
escape from my embarrassing position ignominiously 
takes flight when I look at the ugly brown creature 
bobbing* about in the water like an inflated shuttlecock. 
I hurriedly reconsider, and instead of being eaten I 
drop my clutch upon my dry goods, cover my face with 
my hands and burst into tears. 

The sight of my sorrow rouses my sympathetic com- 
panion to action. 

“ Lincoln Crawford,” she cries, “ I wonder if you can 
find nothing better to do than to stand there laughing 
like an idiot when we are about to be devoured by 
rattlesnakes.” 

“Hothing, unless it is to admire the poetic turn of 
white toes margined by green moss,” he replies, still 
laughing, which only serves to increase the flow of my 
tears and Blanche’s indignation. 

“ Ho come here !” she cries. 

“ Distance lends enchantment,” he replies, coolly. 
“ Besides, I am afraid of snakes.” 

However, he does come, laughing all the while and 
saying,— 

“Well, ladies, what can I do for you?” 

“ Do !” cries Blanche ; as for me I can only weep, — 
“ howl,” he says, when he afterwards tells it at the 
hotel. 

“ Cet Hell on dry land,” commands Blanche, “and 
then kill the snake.” The snake, however, disappears 
during the tumult. 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


281 


“ How can I get her over without wetting my boots?” 
asks Lincoln. “ Miss Courtney, if you could manage 
to wade half-way, I could then reach you with my 
hands ; but you must be careful : these rattlesnakes are 
dreadfully poisonous as well as treacherous ; the ugly 
old serpent is no doubt hidden under the water, plan- 
ning a dinner upon your pretty toes. Eattlesnakes are 
ten times more fierce when in water.” 

At this suggestion I weep louder, if possible, than ever. 

“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear !” cries Blanche, “ she never 
shall put her foot in the water. Lincoln, go and bring 
her in your arms, high up, out of reach of the monster.” 

“ I guess I will have to do it,” he replies ; “ they do 
not bite through leather, I believe.” 

“ Then if you will throw me my slippers I — will — 
come out without assistance,” I venture. 

“ Which I would gladly do,” ho replies, “ only I saw 
one of them going for a sail on Collins Eiver a quarter 
of an hour since. The pretty little runner will just 
about spend the night at — no, — yonder it is, sail still 
hoisted, fast in a pile of drift.” 

Alas ! the last blow has fallen. 

“ Never mind the shoe : I’ll get it for you,” he says, 
seeing my lips begin to quiver again. “And now I 
will come to bring you over. I wonder where the beast 
is hiding.” 

He strikes the water with his cane, cries “ Shoo I” 
and begins stuffing his pants in his boots. 

“ Do they bite in the water ?” I ask. 

“ The worst kind,” he replies. “ But you needn’t be 
afraid. I’ll hold you out of reach. Now, put your 
arms around my neck. Oh, tighter than that, or I’ll 
be sure to drop you, and that will settle the matter. 
Oh, no, you are not choking me at all ; but can you 
24 * 


282 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

hold now? We must take a little longer route up- 
stream, as there is danger of stepping upon the enemy 
lower down. No, no, you are not very heavy ; I have 
carried heavier packages many a time. I carried 
Blanche once — ‘ toted' her you folks would say — when 
she was sick. You Southerners use such heathenish 
verbs. Watch out: you’ll fall if you let go.” 

He holds me fast in his arms ; I want to strike him 
the worst kind, but Blanche is calling to him to go 
carefully and telling him how good he is, so I know it 
must seem ungrateful, my inclination to fight, when he 
is doing so much for me. So I unclinch my fist and 
place my hand upon his breast gently, meaning the 
movement to express my thanks. He understands, I 
think, for he looks down a moment, and I feel his warm 
breath across my fingers as if he would have kissed 
them ; but he does not, and in a moment I am sitting 
by Blanche’s side on the bank, while we are laughing 
and crying together. 

Lincoln holds my rescued slipper upon the end of his 
cane and looks serious. “ Young ladies,” — he takes the 
stocking, wrings the water from it, and hangs it upon 
a bough, — “ while that stocking is drying I shall take 
the opportunity to deliver a lecture. But before be- 
ginning, Miss Courtney, I must ask you to allow me to 
examine a cut I notice on your foot. How, I am not 
in a humor for trifiing, and I am a good surgeon, — hey, 
Blanche ?” 

“Yes, you are pretty good, but I am better. Put 
out your foot. Hell; I will attend to the cut,” says 
Blanche. 

In spite of us both he binds my wounded foot, from 
which the blood is slowly dripping, making a bandage 
of his own handkerchief. 


STOLEN FRUIT. 


283 


‘‘Now, young ladies,” he says, when he has finished, 
“ you must know, to begin at the beginning, it is not 
ladylike to climb out of windows.” 

“ Ah !” we exclaim, in chorus. 

“Just be quiet,” he commands; “and it isn’t safe to 
be strolling over the mountains alone; and, moreover, 
people place themselves in a position to be criticised 
when they do these things ; sometimes they are fol- 
lowed ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Sometimes they are frightened ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Sometimes they are snake-bitten ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ And sometimes when they break the last bond of 
propriety, and wade, like foolish children, in ice-cold 

mountain streams 

“Oh!” 

“ They are apt to bruise their pretty feet ” 

“ Oh!” 

“ Or worse, take sore throat and die ” 

“ Oh, dear !” 

“ Or worse still, lose their slippers and dampen their 

red stockings ” 

“Oh, dear, dear!” 

“ Or worst of all,” he continues, “ have to be brought 

out in the arms of a young man ” 

“ Get out !” 

He dodges the slipper aimed at his head. It has just 
begun to dawn on my mind that he is laughing at us ; 
and the snake story, — oh, dear, what idiots we have 
been ! And there he stands laughing as if a prize has 
been offered for that accomplishment, and telling us 
how he heard our plans and followed us ; and advising 


284 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

us to study our natural histories and learn the habits 
of snakes. We would be enlightened, he is confident ; 
but above all he advises us to learn the difference be- 
tween a rattlesnake and a mud-turtle. Then he laughs 
again, and I am indignant and tell him exactly what I 
think of him. 

“ There may be some imprudence attached to persons 
climbing out of their own private windows and taking 
a harmless walk in the woods, but it isn’t necessarily 
dishonorable, which is more than can be said of the 
man who listens to conversations not intended for him, 
then follows like a sneak to pry from behind rocks and 
bushes, and then takes advantage of others’ ignorance 
and timidity to tell them horrid tales — falsehoods — 
about rattlesnakes that bite in the water.” 

I get over the ground with all possible haste. 

“ Go away ! don’t you ever open your lips to me 
again,” I continue. “ And I tell you now, I do not wish 
you ever, under any circumstances, to come to my 
relief again, not if you see me drowning. I had rather 
be swallowed in a whirlpool or crushed to death by a 
boa-constrictor than to be laughed at by you. I despise 
you, — you ugly, sneaking Yankee ! Come, Blanche, let’s 
go home.” 

“ But the stocking, dear ; we cannot reach it,” she 
replies. 

‘‘We can leave it, I suppose,” I retort, as I wrap 
another handkerchief around my foot, and, thrusting 
it into the wet slipper, we take our way homeward. 
He follows, always in sight. 

In the evening I hear him entertaining a party of 
at least one dozen with an account of “ Miss Courtney’s 
terrible encounter with a mud-turtle.” 

“The horrid Yankee!” I mutter, stealing away un- 


SALVATION^ S FREE. 


285 


seen; and once at home, where Mrs. Crawford has 
preceded me with a headache, I throw myself in the 
hammock and have a good cry. 

Mot long after I hear a whistle and a quick step upon 
the front gallery ; as the step comes nearer I close my 
eyes and feign sleep. 

“ Miss Courtney ?” 

Mo answer. 

“ Miss Courtney ? You are not asleep : I heard you 
crying.” 

Still no answer. 

“ Will you not speak to me ?” 

“Mo,” I exclaim; “I told you never to speak to me 
again. Mow go away and leave me. I hate you.” 

And soon I hear him in his mother’s room saying, 
“ Good-night ;” then his step dies on the gravelled walk, 
the gate closes behind him, and I know he has returned 
to the gayety of the hotel. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

“SALVATION’S FREE.” 

“ 0 wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursel’s as ithers see us, — 

Fra’ mony a blunder it would free us 
And foolish notion.” 

Sunday morning we gather as usual upon the Look- 
out in front of the hotel ; it is Bob’s suggestion that 
we go to church. We all cry out against the punish- 
ment ; I in particular offer a strong protest. 

“ Oh, Bob, don’t !” I exclaim. “ Playing cards all 


286 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

week in a parlor and allowing the Lord the use of it 
on Sundays is a little too inconsistent. According to 
my way of thinking, Omnipotence and Moloch do not 
inhabit the same temple ; certainly they do not recog- 
nize the same worshippers.” 

Bob laughs, and replies : “ My suggestion was not 
that we attend the regular Sunday service at the hotel, 
but the monthly preaching at the ‘ meetin’-house’ at the 
foot of the mountain. They are having a protracted 
meeting among the mountain folks. We may find 
something new ; certainly something odd.” 

“ And just as certainly nothing ‘ new,’ ” says Captain 
Ellersley. 

“ Put it to the vote, Courtney : Who will go, say I.” 

“ 1 1” solemnly responds Lincoln, and we all laugh. 

“ Oh, I am willing to crucify my own comfort for the 
eternal weal of my friends,” he continues. “ Miss Court- 
ney has fallen from grace, and needs to be reclaimed.” 

“ You are considerate,” I reply ; “ but let me tell you, 
salvation, like charity,- should begin at home.” 

“ But, unlike charity, it should not end there,” he says. 
“You need feel no alarm on my account. Miss Court- 
ney, I am a Presbyterian.” 

“ Well,” I retort, “it may be well for a Presbyterian 
to get the fence-rails from his own eyes before he 
conies with a microscope to hunt for the cinder in his 
brother’s.” 

Then Blanche comes to the rescue : “ You two have, 
as usual, lost sight of the matter under discussion in a 
private quarrel. Now, both of you be quiet and listen,” 
she commands. 

“Miss McChesney,” says Lincoln, “this part of us 
will'' 

“And how about you, Nell?” asks Blanche. 


^^SALVATION'S FREE." 


287 


“ I fail to see how he,” indicating Lincoln, “ is a part 
of me,” I reply. 

“ I laid claim to no such honor,” he exclaims. “ I 
am, however, or was, a part of the quarrel.” 

“To be sure you are,” I answer; .“you are always 
a part of the quarrels, — “the major part.” 

“Not the <^rwm-major ?” he says, and we put our 
hands over our ears and cry, “ Shoot him !” “ Drown 

him!” “Excommunicate him I” “Throw him over 
the bluff I” 

When the noise subsides, we again return to the 
question of church-going. 

“ The only question is,” says Bob, “ can the ladies 
walk? It is more than two miles.” 

“ I can speak for Miss Courtney,” says Lincoln. 

“ Speak for yourself,” I retort. “ I can do my own 
talking.” 

“ To be sure you can,” he replies ; “ you are a true 
daughter of Eve.” 

“ I admit I haven’t so much of the old Adam in me 
as some of my friends,” I answer, and then Bob inter- 
feres. 

“ I wish you two could roll up your sleeves and fight 
your quarrel out, as the httle boys do when they disa- 
gree over their marbles. The question of Adam and 
Eve has nothing whatever to do with the question of 
church-going.” 

“ Then I have been misinformed,” says Lincoln. 

“And my Bible is wrong,” I declare. 

Poor Bob looks hopeless as he says, — 

“ Well, I am at least glad to know you two agree for 
once.” 

“ This isn’t the first time,” Lincoln declares. “ We 
agreed long ago — to disagree.” 


288 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

‘‘Crawford” says Eobert, “you have no sense of 
reverence. The age of that joke should protect it.” 

And then Lincoln rises, lifts his hat, bows very low 
to Bob, and says, — 

“ My respects always and everywhere to age.” 

We all laugh, and Captain Ellersley suggests we 
“ leave the incorrigible fellow behind.” 

“ Better reconsider that,” says the “ incorrigible fel- 
low “ Miss Courtney will die of dulness if I am not 
along to quarrel with her.” 

“No,” I reply, “we Methodists do not go to church 
to quarrel. You forget I am not a Presbyterian.” 

“ Never mind, I will take care of Miss Courtney, if 
she will allow,” says Captain Ellersley. “ Now, ladies, 
run and get your hats ; it is half-past eight ; we will 
have to walk some two miles.” 

“Well!” exclaims Lincoln, “ that is what I call set- 
tling the matter with a vengeance. Ellersley, do you 
suppose I intend being left out in any such fashion ? 
You reckon without your host, my handsome fellow. 
Blanche, will you be my chaperon to preaching ?” 

“Sorry,” she replies, “but I have promised Mr. 
Courtney. Come, Nell.” 

And so we leave him there ; Blanche and I going to 
the cottage, while Bob and Captain Ellersley go across 
to the hotel. He threatens us with every old gossip on 
the mountain, vows he will turn the bloodhounds loose 
upon us : he has only to whisper it that we are “ gone 
to meetin’ ” two miles down the mountain without the 
necessary evil, a chaperon. 

Major Crawford is discussing the grape crop with a 
party of gentlemen on the gallery ; Mrs. Crawford is 
prescribing for the sick child of a little woman who 
arrived two days ago with her first and only babe, and 


^^SALVATION^S FREEV 


289 


the poor thing has been lying upon its pillow and moan- 
ing until the young mother’s heart has almost broken. 
One meets such varied misery and mirth at summer 
watering-places. 

Passing the Lookout a half-hour later, we encounter 
Lincoln. “Going?” asks Bob; and he answers, — 

“ Going? To be sure I am going. I have never at- 
tended church in Tennessee.” 

We have spent some curious Sabbaths since we have 
been in the Cumberlands, — not all badly spent. A priest 
and robe are not necessary to worship ; one may erect 
his own altar, like Jacob, in the wilderness. And, after 
all, “ the groves were God’s first temples.” 

Above us the glow of the early morning is still 
throbbing in rapture upon the mountains. Beyond the 
ruddy splendor somewhere, awaits the eternal Sabbath. 
Can it be fairer, or will it be but nature perfected ? 

“ Every day is like Sunday in the mountains,” says 
Blanche, when, our journey half finished, we stop to 
rest a moment and enjoy the loveliness about us. 

“No,” Bob insists, “the Sabbath-day has an atmos- 
phere of peace peculiarly its own. One might sleep a 
thousand years and, waking on that day, would recog- 
nize it.” 

At the foot of the mountain, almost hidden in a grove 
of poplar- and maple-trees, after an hour’s tramp, we 
find the little log “ meetin’-house.” 

A few horses are standing here and there under the 
shade, and several yokes of oxen are resting them- 
selves beside the empty wagons, the yokes still upon 
their necks. A dog pants under every wagon. Dogs 
are a part of every poor man’s family in these parts ; 
the poorer the man, the more numerous the dogs. 

The church, a little house with tiny windows and one 
t 25 


N 


290 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


door, was once picturesque with its poplar logs and 
clean white chinking, but time has beaten it gray, — 
gray with age, gray with weather, like the representa- 
tives of a fast-dying custom, who gather in the humble 
temple to olfer their sacrifices. 

The door is open, and the little prison-like windows ; 
and as we draw nearer the sound of singing floats to 
us, — slow, dragging, half-asleep singing, all out of tune 
with itself, and all out of tune too with the grand 
old outside world. Behind, half a century behind the 
march of progress; gray, too, like the church, the cus- 
toms, and the people, — 

“ Keep yo’ lamps a-trimblin’ a-burnin’. 

Keep yo' lamps a-trimblin’ a-burnin’, 

Keep yo’ lamps a-trimblin’ a burnin’, 

For the Lord will come.” 

And then the moving of heavy feet tells us the wor- 
shippers have knelt to pray. At the door we wait 
until the petition shall have ended. Some are praying, 
all are kneeling ; all humble enough had not humility 
long since, from over- taxation, ceased to be a virtue. 
For much meekness is a curse, in that it destroys aspi- 
ration. 

Lincoln touches my arm just in time to prevent my 
becoming serious. While leaning against the wall, wait- 
ing until we are ready to enter the church, his hand 
had come in contact with something thrust for safety 
into a crevice of the chinking. Slowly he had drawn 
it forth, — the long, yellow, half-chewed stick-brush, 
redolent of tobacco. 

“What is it?” he asks, so seriously I can scarcely 
refrain from laughing aloud as I answer, — 

“ I have no idea.” 


^^SALVATION'S FREE." 


291 


At tho same moment Captain Ellersley catches sight 
of the new-found curiosity and also of the expression 
upon the young man’s face, and laughs until the less 
devout among the worshippers venture a glance of 
inquiiy in our direction. 

Blanche draws down the hand that is displaying the 
trophy, and whispers, — 

“ A tooth-brush.” 

“A Southern invention?” he asks. 

She nods, and he wraps the curiosity in his handker- 
chief and thrusts it into his bosom, just as the petition 
ends, and we enter the house of worship. 

Crowded in among the old folks and tho babies we 
find a seat in the “ ’men corner,” to the left of the little 
box of a pulpit, in full view of the “ mourners’ bench” 
set in front. 

There are advantages and disadvantages in being 
seated in the amen corner, as the sequel will prove. 

An old man on the first bench of our corner settles 
himself at the very outset of the sermon for a good 
nap ; others are industriously chewing, occasionally 
depositing a mouthful of yellow tobacco-juice on the 
floor until there are numerous pools here and there, 
each a private institution. 

In our rear, where the bench has been drawn away 
to make room, seven babies are lying like sardines in a 
box, fast asleep on a large gray blanket. Strong young 
giants, with able bodies and healthy lungs. 

“What a racket the young army could raise!” I 
think, as I watch the movements of the restless sleepers 
tossing under the playful tickling of a swarm of friendly 
flies; and when one large blue-bottle, made bold by 
continued unrebuked familiarity, touches too decidedly 
the calf of a young Cyclops’ left leg, and the giant 


292 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

raises that formidable member to resent the insult, in 
dangerous proximity to the next giant’s nose, I impul- 
sively put my hand over my ear in dread anticipation ; 
if the musical apparatus should be once set in motion, 
where would the roof be ? 

Fortunately, the captain of the fly brigade charges 
his battery in another direction ; after a moment’s un- 
decided buzzing, he flies over to investigate the law of 
rising and falling inflection as demonstrated by the 
nostrils of the old man dozing on the first bench of the 
amen corner. 

The sleeper resents the first unexpected attack with 
a vigorous snort, which warns the captain to be more 
careful. Slowly he crawls and tenderly, round and up 
to the extreme tip end of the sleeper’s prime character- 
istie feature, his nose. Steadily, slowly, cautiously, 
until, firmly established, the enemy begins operations ; 
he steadies himself a moment on all sixes, then lifts him- 
self on the two hindmost, props his chin with the two 
front, while the remaining pair of legs begin a gen- 
tle, affectionate tickling. Gently, securely, boldly the 
operation proceeds, until the captain is fairly dancing 
a hornpipe. 

The sleeper sleeps on ; only a quick and sharp sigh 
tells that the foe has made ever so slight an impression. 

Then the fly changes his tactics: he comes down 
gently on all sixes, promenades ever so lightly around 
the premises, carefully examining as he goes, stopping 
now and then for a gentle tickle. 

The sleeper moves; the sigh changes to a quick, 
startled grunt, and the enemy holds up a moment. 

When all is quiet again he renews operations ; he 
comes down upon that nose with an energy which 
means business. He tickles, he dances, he plays 


^^SALVATION'S FREE." 


293 


“ Seven Up,” “ Poor Puss wants a Corner,” “ Jack Jump 
over the Candlestick,” Battle of Manassas,” and dances 
the “ Highland Fling” with a grace that would shame 
the bonniest Scotch lassie that ever tripped a measure. 
He only ceases operations when the sleeper suddenly 
starts, jumps, and brings his head to bear with a telling 
whack ! upon the wall against which he is leaning. 

It was magnificently planned, beautifully executed, 
and eminently successful, this campaign against the old 
mountaineer’s nose. 

While this battle is in progress the preacher is busy 
with his sermon. The terrors of hell and the beauties 
of heaven have been duly pictured, and now the people 
are singing, — 

“Oh, there’s one wide river, 

And that wide river is Jordan. 

There’s one wide river, 

And that wide river to cross.” 

A girl on a bench near by finds occasion during the 
singing to “take a dip.” She unscrews the lid of a 
tin box, taps on the top with her second finger, and 
thrusts a long, yellow stick-brush into her mouth, 
draws it out, dips it into the powdered tobacco, taps 
it upon the rim of the box, then, as if relenting the 
loss of the dust which falls off, thrusts it again into the 
yellow stuff and conveys it, heavily weighted, to her 
mouth. Then she very kindly offers the box to her 
next neighbor, a young woman with a baby asleep in 
her arms. The woman lays the sleeping Hercules 
across her knee, stoops over him, lifts her dress, -turns 
down the white home-knit stocking, draws out a tooth- 
brush, and the two are soon enjoying a quiet dip. 
Another girl not far off seeing the fun, unfastens two 
26 * 


294 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

buttons of her dress, draws out from her bosom a 
diminutive package, and, slowly unwrapping it, tri- 
umphantly displays her brush, full, only requiring to 
be conveyed to the mouth. 

“ Eeady loaded,” whispers Bob in my ear, and I hear 
Lincoln on the other side asking Captain Ellersley if 
there is “ any extra charge for spittle,” pointing slyly 
to the partnership box. 

The song ends, there is a prayer, and then the 
preacher extends to his audience the offer of salva- 
tion. 

The response is immediate. The bench is soon 
crowded with the anxious ones, kneeling, sitting, 
standing, wringing their hands and pleading for 
“ mercy,” until we are almost deaf. Above it all, the 
preacher still exhorts the sinner to come “ While the 
gospel gate air op’n an’ the feast a-waitin’, a-coolin’, an’ 
a-spilin’ for the guests that air invited.” 

At this moment a young girl at the altar raises her 
voice and shouts, “ I’ve found it !” The preacher calls 
“Amen!” an old woman in the rear of the house claps 
her thin, bony hands and screams, — 

“ Bless God I Bless God !” 

The “ coming through” of this young girl seems to 
provoke the other penitents to frenzy. One young 
man gets down upon the floor and rolls and agonizes 
and “ ’lows he won’t let go,” and finally bounds to his 
feet with a yell which plays the very mischief. 

Babies are human, though they be babies ; the cry 
of the new convert reaches the ear, and penetrates the 
slumbers of the eldest and end baby; he wakes with 
a cry, and thrusts his foot into the stomach of the 
next sleeper. This one rolls over on the next, who 
quickly sounds the note of alarm to the next, and soon 


DAN TO BEERSHEBA. 


295 


the entire line is in a commotion. The “ seven sleepers” 
rise up with fists thrust into their eyes, and add their 
voices to the racket. 

“ I’m glad salvation’s free,” 

sing the people, above the shouting, — 

“I’m glad salvation’s free : 

Salvation’s free for you and me ; 

Bless God! salvation’s free.” 

Free? the man who doubts it is a fool. Who could 
doubt it, with the folks singing, the girls shouting, the 
babies crying, while even a little black terrier dog, fast 
asleep under the jDulpit, suddenly awakes to the fact 
that something is going on to which he has no call, 
and puts in a plea for recognition. And now the 
question becomes one of ability between babies, mourn- 
ers, and dog ; and amid the tumult we make good our 
escape, Lincoln carrying, carefully wrapped in his 
handkerchief, the tooth-brush found in the chink of the 
wall. 


CHAPTEE XXYIII. 

“DAN TO BEERSHEBA.” 

“ There are two worlds : the world that we can measure with line and 
rule, and the world that we feel with our hearts and imaginations.” 

“ Mrs. Crawford, have you seen Eobert ?” 

“Yes; I saw him going toward the billiard-room 
with Major Crawford not ten minutes since,” she 
replies. 


296 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


■ “ The man who can be content with billiards — a tame 
game of every-day billiards — amidst all this world of 
wonder deserves to suffer for his lack of taste,” I ex- 
claim. “Tell him, please, when he returns, that we 
have gone to see the Backbone, — Blanche, Lincoln, 
Captain Ellersley, and 1. We are going through the 
woods by way of the old mill, and return by Dan ; so, 
if he cares to follow, he will not miss us.” 

The mountain is a mass of verdure and fragrance 
and sunlight; a late rain has “laid the mist” to some 
extent, so that with the aid of a good glass one can see 
the farthest and faintest peaks. 

“ How far is it ?” asks Blanche, as we pass from the 
cottage, and take our way down the sandy mountain 
road. 

“ About two miles,” replies Captain Ellersley. “ Do 
you feel able to walk it?” 

“ Walk it! What are two miles on the mountain ?” 
she laughs. “Why, we have walked six some days 
since we started upon our summer excursion. Do you 
know that I believe living among these rocks one natu- 
rally grows to be like them, strong and independent. 
Oh I this is the path ?” 

“Yes, through this wood; and you have not yet 
seen a lovelier, stiller place. Look a moment; we 
stand at the top of this descent ; at the foot of it, you 
notice, is a stream ; above, beyond this, another ascent 
begins, whose height is exactly on a level with that 
upon which we stand. When we shall have climbed 
that, the road will be through a perfectly level country 
for almost a mile. Yet, we are on the mountain, the 
top of it.” 

“ Why, there is nothing romantic in a level road,” I 
insist. “ Let’s go back.” 


^^DAN TO BEERSHEBA” 


297 


“ You will find it more rugged farther on,” says Cap- 
tain Ellersley. “ There are bluffs and mountains enough, 
and cabins hidden under the rocks, and dark caves 
which t^e sun takes half a day to find, and where the 
shadows grow long and heavy and frightful, while the 
overhanging mountains are glowing with sunlight. 
And the laurel and other shrubbery grows so close and 
rank, one can believe himself in the wilderness.” 

“ Captain Ellersley, are there any rattlesnakes in your 
wonderland ?” I venture, when we have walked some 
distance in silence. 

“ I am afraid they are quite plentiful. Miss Court- 
ney,” he replies j “ but ‘ tourists’ never allow such 
insignificant inconveniences to interfere with their 
pleasure.” 

This is discouraging, and I suppose my face betrays 
my feelings. 

“ Never mind. Miss Courtney,” says Lincoln ; “ I will 
pledge myself to protect you from the snakes, unless 
you pull off your shoes. I believe there are no turtles 
on the Backbone ; hey, Ellersley ?” 

“ Not a turtle,” replies the captain. 

******* 

The wind, which is always astir on the mountains, 
rustles the branches over our heads, and shifts the sun- 
beams through the tremulous leaves. A crow perched 
upon the scarred, bare branches of a dead oak is dis- 
cordantly calling, calling, as if by continuous effort he 
hopes at last to produce a respectable tone. But who 
can tell if, after all, the bird’s cawing does not form a 
part, a chief note, in Nature’s grand harmonica ? A 
mocking-bird’s trolling, however exquisite, a canary’s 
delicate trilling, would be out of place amid these 
mountains; but the unsightly habitant of the lonely 


298 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

balds and desolate forests adds effectiveness to the 
scene. 

“ Where are the mountains?” asks Blanche. “This 
is the first time for weeks that I have lost sight of the 
old smoky tops.” 

“You will see them soon,” Captain Ellersley replies: 
“ see them in all their splendor. Look ! this is the 
Backbone.” 

Wonder of wonders! how grand, how majestic! the 
distant bluish rim, the nearer purple peaks, the great 
mysterious mountains, the dark, shadow-haunted coves 
on either hand ! and how rightly is it called, — that long, 
zigzag road following the narrow embankment nature 
has thrown up to divide the underlying valleys! A 
veritable backbone; a fool could swear to the appro- 
priateness of the. name. 

“Take the glass, Miss Courtney, and look across 
‘Dark Hollow.’ That is Dark Hollow to our right. 
You see that taller point? that is Peak’s Point, all 
wrapped in purple and azure; the nearer, darker point 
is the one to which I wish to call your attention. Do 
you notice the white grayish cliff? That is Stone Door; 
we are going to visit it in a few days; it is one of our 
best sights. How look on the other side of the Back- 
bone. You see the same dark valley in a better state 
of cultivation, perhaps, and more sunlight upon it. 
That long, desolate, unbroken line of bluffs is what 
the mountain people call ‘ The Middle Eidge.’ The 
little cabin you can just see at the foot of the Back- 
bone is the minister’s ‘ modest mansion ;’ it presents 
a very cosey, picturesque appearance from this point, 
but, I assure you, much of the enchantment vanishes 
when deprived of the charm of distance. How then, to 
your right, farther under the shadow of the Backbone, 


“D^iV TO BEERSHEBA.^ 


299 


is a really picturesque cabin. If 3’ou say so, we will 
pay a visit there before we return.” 

“ By all means,” cries Blanche. ‘‘ The place looks 
‘ neat as a pin and, moreover, I see an orchard, and it 
is possible we may be able to buy some fruit.” 

“ I see a cow feeding in the field beyond the house ; 
I should suppose it possible to buy a tumbler of fresh 
buttermilk,” says Lincoln. 

“ That is better than fruit,” Blanche agrees. “ Do 
let’s hurry ; the thought of a cool, refreshing glass of 
milk is delightful. ” 

“But how can we ever hope to reach the house?” I 
ask. “ This ridge is almost perpendicular, and I see no 
path.” 

“ We will doubtless find one farther down ; look how 
the black shadows are lying on the side of the moun- 
tain, side by side with the broadest patches of 
sunshine.” 

“ And look higher up,” cries Blanche ; “ there is a 
dull spot almost at the extreme summit ; it gives the 
appearance of a great yawning chasm opening on the 
mountain.” 

“ It requires some little persuasion to induce one to 
believe that darkness the effect of the silver-looking 
cloud floating above us,” says Lincoln. “Dear! dear! 
was there ever such a quantity of rock, and mist, and 
grandeur ?” 

“ A quantity, indeed ; you will say so when you see 
it from the extreme end of the Backbone,” laughs Cap- 
tain Ellersley. “We will go there in a few minutes; 
I thought I heard some one climbing up the bluff.” 

“An antelope would find it difiicult to secure a hold 
here ; your ears must have deceived you, captain,” says 
Blanche. 


300 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ Why, that is not an impossible climb,” I insist. “ It 
would be no great feat to scale the Backbone; Mr. 
Crawford, will you try it with me when we return ? 
You see, we will start at the cottage just under the 
bluif, and it will be economizing on time to climb the 
Backbone.” 

“I see; but will it be economizing on backboned* 
he asks. “One must have a good deal in order to make 
that pull, and surely, being a woman, you will not 
openly defy all the rules of fashionable semi-invalidism 
and own you have a backbone, — a real, whole, healthy 
spinal column ? My dear friend, I sadly fear your 
summer sojourn among the Tennessee highlands has 
undone the maxims and regulations of a fashionable 
boarding-school, for a decade of years at least. Yet, if 
you insist on being daring, command me ; if you wish 
to scale the Backbone of the Cumberlands, I will en- 
courage you to the heroic undertaking by following in 
your steps. Lead on, — ‘ Be great in act, as you have 
been in thought,’ and I will follow you, ‘ by all the gods 
I’ll follow on, to death, to glory; or — to buttermilk.’ ” 

“We had best move on, then,” says Captain Ellersley. 
“ There is a magnificent view to be had from the point 
ahead of us, and we will pay the parson a visit ; and 
then for the buttermilk. Move on, Crawford, and keep 
an eye on Miss Courtney ; she seems to forget eternity 
waits a slip over that precipice.” 

Down the narrow, winding embankment, until at 
last we stand at the place where the wall-like rise ter- 
minates into a point so narrow a wagon can scarcely 
pass along it; then the road begins another ascent. 
At the terminus of the Backbone, midway between the 
two ridges, almost surrounded by mountains, stands 
a low, unpretentious cabin. The narrow doors, so low 


^^DAN TO BEERSHEBA.^' 


301 


a small man could not enter without stooping, the ab- 
sence of windows, the battered roof, from which the 
loosened timbers are swinging in the light wind, the 
rotted and half-fallen porch, the unkept, uncared-for 
aspect of the dwelling, all combine to form a strange, 
inconsistent contrast with the pretty garden spot, the 
carefully-tended cows, the well-weeded paths, the neatly- 
trimmed bushes, and the carefully-pruned, well-selected 
trees in the orchard, hanging full of peaches that are 
already turning rosy in the sun, and apples red and 
yellow and green; all telling the care spent upon them. 

An old man with gray hair and beard, strangers for 
many years, it seems, to comb and scissors, sits on the 
porch, dividing his attention between the gambols of 
two barefoot children playing in the yard and a young 
Berkshire pig which an old woman is slopping in a 
large oven by the doorstep. When his pigship has 
finished his afternoon meal, which the remains about 
the sides of the oven declare to be buttermilk, he stalks 
leisurely past the mistress and into the manse, as 
much at home as the master himself. 

“Is the back door shet, Clancy?” calls the old man. 
“ If it ain’t, he’ll be in the ’tater-patch afore you knows ; 
and he ain’t gwine in that patch, Berkshy or no Berk- 
shy. Jap had better kej^t him dawn ter Tracy as ter 
have that ’tater-patch sp’iled.” 

“ Pigs, people, and potatoes,” says Lincoln in a whis- 
per, as we are trying the latch of the gate. “ Miss 
Courtney, there is your opportunity ; let me advise 
you to make it good while his swineship is entertain- 
ing himself in the parlor. There is just milk enough 
left in the oven to satisfy a delicate dyspeptic.” 

“ I have changed my mind,” I reply. “I do not like 
buttermilk.” 


26 


302 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

And ten minutes since a draught of it was worth the 
cup of nectar spilled by poor little Hebe; frailty, frailty !” 

“ Good-evening, parson,” calls Captain Ellersley. 
“ We have just climbed the Backbone, and have stopped 
to rest a moment with you before undertaking to walk 
up again.” 

“ Come in, in the name of the Lord,” says the parson. 
“ Alius glad to see you ; will you have the cheer ?” 

Hot all of us, to be sure ; and yet it seems to be half 
the supply, for when the host drags another, a shuck- 
bottomed excuse for a seat, from the house, he makes 
no further effort to seat his guests, who accordingly 
seat themselves along the edge of the porch. Then 
Captain Ellersley begins : 

“ You have a grand country here, parson ; a man 
ought to find it an easy thing to be happy in a place so 
near heaven.” 

“ Yes, peace is plentiful here as anywheres,” he re- 
plies, “ but onrest ain’t hard to find nowheres, and man 
is born to trouble as the spark flies up’ards. It’s easy 
enough to be quiet and trustful-like while the sun shines 
on the ridge ; but when the shadows begin creepin’ up 
from the valley, and the storm shakes the old mount’n 
till it groans and trimbles, then it’s hard to find yer 
faith, like it was on Galilee when the wind broke the 
ship and the sea riz. It’s the same, — we's all the same, 
valley or mount’n or sea. When the sun shines and 
the orchard is groaning with fruit, it’s easy to bless the 
Lord ; but when the storm comes, then there’s weepin’ 
and wailin’ and callin’ on rocks to hide us. Faith in a 
storm is like a fine mansion in a blaze, — you couldn’t 
git no bid on your stock. Be you a Methodist?” 

Captain Ellersley blushes, and Blanche comes to his 
relief by saying, — 


^^DAN TO BEERSHEBA.^' 


303 


I am.” 

“Then we’s all bretherin’ by the grace o’ God,” de- 
clares the old man, wiping his glasses upon the sleeve 
of his blue-checked shirt. “We’s all bretherin’ and 
bound for the Promis’ Lan’.” 

Ah ! what glimpses of that blessed country one must 
get from these old points ! Sometimes when the mists 
are lifted and the sun shines through the rifted moun- 
tains, flooding the fields with light, what dreams, what 
visions, what aspirations must throb and burn and 
tremble with the vouchsafed glory ! 

“ I should think this country so beautiful you would 
forget there is a better land,” I suggest. 

“We be all strangers and sojourners as our fathers 
wus, and we be all a-travellin’ to the land what flows 
with milk and honey,” replies the parson. 

“ Were you born here?” Lincoln asks. 

“ Bred and born in the mount’ns, and hopes to die by 
’em, and be buried where the shades o’ yon ridge can 
alius find my grave. I loves the mount’ns.” 

“ Where is your church, parson ?” asks Captain El- 
lersley. 

“ Down yonder fornenst Dark Hollow, to the side o’ 
the Backbone, ‘Scratch Out’ they calls it,” he answers. 

“ Have you a good membership ?” 

“ Pretty fair, pretty fair,” he replies. “ The mount’n 
folks ain’t given to putting off the’r salvation.” 

“ You have a fine orchard, parson.” 

“ Yes, an’ a good gyarden ; them pertaters is a sight, 
and gitten better all the time. When you-uns stand at 
the last twist of the Backbone, if you look over that 
gyarden an’ orchard spot it looks likely, a-bloomin’ 
here in the wilderness. Be you a-travellin’ a-ready ?” 

“ Yes,” replies the captain ; “ we have a long walk 


304 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

before us and we travel slowly.” And we make our 
adieus. 

“ Come to meetin’,” says the preacher. “ Come to 
meetin’. I’ve been a-holdin’ meetin’s here before the 
split, — five year before the split, — and I alius invites 
the stranger in the gates to come and hear the Word.” 

We thank him, promise to avail ourselves of the 
invitation, and pass out of the little gate. 

“ Now, no one is to look up for two hundred yards,” 
declares the captain. “ Eyes to the ground until I 
give the word. No cheating. Miss Courtney ; Craw- 
ford, you sly dog, why are you hiding behind Miss 
McChesney? To the front, sir. Now, ladies, I will 
give you a delightful surprise if you will obey orders. 
No, there is nothing to stumble upon if you keep your 
eyes on the ground. Come on ; now, mind you, no 
peeping, no cheating, until I give the word. Now 
halt ! turn round once, everybody.” 

Every one turns. 

“ Now, where is the hotel? In which direction ?” 

“ There!” three fingers point in three different direc- 
tions. 

‘‘All wrong,” declares the captain ; “you have selected 
every point but the right one.” 

“ Why, who can tell where anything is in this circle 
of mountains?” says Lincoln. “Ellersley, where is the 
opening? the outlet to civilization ?” 

We are standing upon a rise, or “knob,” as the na- 
tives call it, in the centre, it seems, of a fertile basin or 
valley, which is completely surrounded by mountains. 
Behind us, the twisted zigzag form of the Backbone 
rises narrow, steep, a dividing wall between the two 
coves on either side. To the far right and left, like great 
arms extended to guard the fertile lowlands, stretch the 


TO BEERSHEBA.'^ 


305 


countless spurs of the Cumberlands, line upon line, 
peak upon peak, mountain upon mountain, until the 
azure cloud and the azure mist upon the tallest peaks 
blend into one. 

“ Where is the traitor who will dare to say there is 
anything grander this side the Atlantic?” says Captain 
Ellersley. 

“ Or beyond it ?” says Blanche. “ There may be 
somewhere amid the Scotch Highlands a lovelier scene 
than this, but I shall doubt it until I see with my own 
eyes. Truly, — 

‘ It’s a honnie, bonnie worP that we’re livin’ in the noo, 

An’ sunny is the land we often travel thro’.’ ” 

“Where is our cabin, Miss Courtney?” asks Lincoln, 
lowering the glass with which he has for five minutes 
been studying the scene. 

“ How can I tell ?” I reply. “ This is a lost circle, in 
which one is sure of but one route.” I look up. 

“Well,” he says, “if you will take the glass, and 
allow me to turn you around, ‘ right about face,’ so, by 
the shoulders, this side with care — glass. Ah ! that’s 
the idea. How, run your eye along the side of the 
Backbone, close by the bluff, and you will see — 
what ?” 

“A cabin, a porch, two children, a dog — a — what is 
it ? A pot suspended gypsy fashion upon three poles, a 
— coffin ? Can it be a coffin by the side of the woman 
sitting under the tree ?” 

I strain my eyes to see: a long, narrow box, — 
surely it is a coffin, y^ct how can it be ? 

“Your ignorance is unpardonable,” says Lincoln. 
“ What are the people doing ?” 

“ One of the women,” I reply, — there are two, — “ is 

W 26 * 


306 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND, 

pouring something into the pot; the other is sewing, 
and, I think, with her foot is rocking the — surely you 
don’t intend to say it is a baby, that narrow coffin- 
like thing ?” 

“No, that is a cradle,” replies Lincoln. “The baby 
is doubtless in it; that is the most sensible idea, at 
least, and certainly more reasonable than to suppose 
the old lady is rocking a coffin. Ellersley, it is time to 
be moving; it is five o’clock.” 

“ l)o you two really intend climbing the Backbone ?” 
he asks. 

“ Yes, we really intend it,” I reply. “ We have done 
better climbing than that since we have been in the 
Cumberlands.” 

“ Well, if you will excuse us, we will take the road.” 

“All of it?” asks Lincoln. 

“No, only so much as will take us to Dan,” is the 
answer. “We will wait for you there; you will find 
us at the spring below the summer-house in the rear of 
the cottage.” 

“ Will we ?” says Lincoln to me, as we leave them 
standing upon the knob, their figures outlined upon 
the dark purple background of mountain behind 
them. 

“Wait for us indeed; we can climb the Backbone 
five times and then have sufficient time to rest at Dan 
before that couple will reach there. Fence No. 1 : 
climb over; you know the rules.” 

He steps over, and I climb to the top rail, hesitate, 
trip, and fall upon the other side. 

“Why, are you trying to roll over?” says Lincoln, 
coming back to assist me. “How unladylike! you 
might have broken a rail.” 

“ And I might have broken my neck,” I retort. 


DAN TO BEERSHEBA.'^ 307 

“Yes, so you might,” he replies. “Assess the 
amount of damages to dry-goods, and let’s go.” 

“ Give me a pin,” 1 ask, catching up the long strip 
of ruffling entangled about my feet. 

“ Do you expect one pin to do duty in the holding of 
a cloth of sufflcient length to span the globe?” he 
asks, critically surveying the torn ruffle. “ Step up 
here on this rock, and I will help you repair the 
damage. There ! hold that end — so ! Now hand me a 
pin, one at a time. Oh, be quiet, you make me prick 
my fingers.” He is kneeling upon the ground pinning 
the ruffle in its place, while I stand upon the rock laugh- 
ing at his efforts to keep the soft woollen goods in place 
until he can fasten it with the pin. 

“ Miss Courtney, I do not see — pin, please — how you 
could possibly have managed in these mountains — an- 
other pin — without me. I have been guide, waiting- 
boy, — a pin, please, — scapegoat, lady’s man, lady’s maid, 
life-preserver, and dressmaker. One more pin, if you 
please. I am afraid you will begin to think me neces- 
sary to your future welfare.” 

“No danger; I am not a believer in necessary evils,” 
I reply. “ Oh, you have pinned the entire ruffle with 
the wrong side out.” 

He stands contemplating the wasted labor with a 
dumfounded, comical expression upon his face. The 
noble array of brass pins shining among the dark blue 
folds of my dress is startling ; the black muslin lining 
of the ruffle tells its own story. 

“Miss Courtney,” he says, standing back, with hands 
behind him, “ that is what I call a mean act, — to allow 
a man to spend so much time, toil, and thought upon a 
task like that and never so much as tell him there is 
a wrong side until the work is done. Now, my lady, 


308 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

black, blue, or brown, that is there to stay. I have no 
idea of doing it over, and you are not going to undo it 
either. That ruffle is to stay, right or wrong; do you 
understand ?” 

“ Oh, I am sure I have no objections, as I shall see 
no one but a few mountaineers, and you. You do not 
count.” 

“Don’t I?” he asks. 

“ JSTot at all,” I reply. “ Go on ; I am ready, only ” 

I stop. “ I forgot to thank you for pinning me up.” 

I lift the ridiculous-looking skirt and laugh. He 
turns upon his heel, and I follow him down the myste- 
rious path to “ Dark Hollow.” 

“ Say ?” he calls, after a moment’s silence. 

“ Say yourself; I have had mine,” is my reply. 

“Well, I say, let’s postpone quarrelling until we get 
home. There’s so much to talk about, and no one to 
talk to,” — he turns and offers me his hand. I finish 
the sentenc-e for him before accepting the hand, — 

“And I saw a great ugly dog lying by the cradle, — a 
regular Cerberus.” 

“ Oh, that is the cause of your agreement to peace, 
is it?” he asks. “I suppose it would be only justice 
to refuse to make friends under the circumstances, but, 
to tell you the truth, I too am afraid of the brute.” 

I seize his arm with a grip of steel. 

“ You are not?” 

“Indeed, I was never more uneasy,” he declares, 
“ but the best thing to do is to put on a bold front and 
‘beard the lion in his den.’ Say, would you object to 
loosening your hold a little? If the creature should 
attack us, I should prefer having two arms for defence. 
Where are you going?” 

He springs forward and catches me by the arm. 


^^DAN TO BEERSHEBA:''^ 


309 


“ I am going to run back,” I reply. “ Let me go, I 
tell you. If you do not I shall scream.” 

“ Why, scream if you will, but never run : it would 
be certain death,” he tells me. 

And scream I do, — so loud, the two children drop 
the basket of chips they are carrying to put under the 
pot and come running to tell us “the dog don’t bite.” 

“ Are you sure ?” asks Lincoln, his voice trembling, — 
“ perfectly sure ?” 

“ Yes, he don’t bite,” replies the little girl, still hold- 
ing to the hem of her empty apron, from which the 
last chip has been spilled. 

“ Little girl, will you keep him off?” I ask, shivering 
as the black head of the dog turns toward me. 

“ Please do, and I will give you a dime,” adds Lincoln. 

“ Aw, he don’t bite nice folks,” insists the child. “ He 
ain’t nuthin’ but a houn’.” 

“A blood hound evidently,” says Lincoln. “Thank 
heaven for an ancient pedigree; I can trace it to Adam 
via Greorge Washington and Pocahontas, etc. Miss 
Courtney, I saw a calf ; shall I call for other protection ?” 

“ If you are as much afraid of calves as of dogs, I 
advise you to do so,” I reply, as I begin to understand 
he is making fun of me. 

We soon stand in the midst of . the assembled house- 
hold, suddenly face to face with the mother and mis- 
tress, the dog, the soap-kettle, “ baby, cradle, and all.” 

Lincoln lifts his hat to the pretty little woman pour- 
ing lye into the boiling soap from a large gourd. She 
pauses in her task, and resting her hand upon one of 
the stakes which holds the kettle, asks “ if we will come 
in an’ rest a spell.” 

There is that in the woman’s appearance to command 
one’s respect. She is tall, fair, with very rosy cheeks 


310 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

and very black hair. She is strong, as well as beautiful. 
The bab}^ lying asleep in the curious coffin-shaped cradle 
is fair as a lily, with hair like sunshine ; the old grand- 
mother is softly humming a tune as she pieces a “ log 
cabin,” as unconcerned as if callers from the valley are 
an every-day thing. The dog crouches by the cradle, 
and, with his head between his paws, returns to his nap 
in the sun. 

“ Will you come in an’ rest ?” the younger woman 
asks again. 

“ No, thank you,” replies Lincoln. “ We came by to 
see if you could let us have a glass of buttermilk.” 

She smiles and drops the gourd of lye. 

“Our cow don’t give much milk now: she’s a-going 
dry: but I reckon you can have a tumbler each. 
Mary !” 

The little girl is in the woods beyond, collecting a 
fresh lapful of chips. 

“ If I can make Mary come and drop the lye in 
while I git the milk,” she says, shading her eyes and 
watching the pink calico bonnet bobbing among the 
bushes. 

“ If you will permit me,” says Lincoln, always pre- 
pared for emergencies. 

Without the least show of surprise or hesitation she 
hands him the gourd, and in a moment disappears under 
the low porch ; soon returning, however, with a chair 
and bidding me “ rest a spell anyhow,” returns to the 
house. 

It is a scene not to be forgotten : the kettle suspended 
above the blazing logs ; the long curl of blue smoke 
rising above the Backbone and floating off to be lost in 
the vapor beyond the “ Hollow the old grandmother 
sewing under the shade of the peach-trees ; the babe 


TO BEERSHEBA:^ 


311 


sleeping in the box at her feet ; the neat log cabin ; the 
children in the wood beyond ; the drowsy summer 
afternoon ; the dog asleep in the sun ; the clouds float- 
ing over us ; the blue peaks in the distance ; the zig- 
zag wall of the Backbone rising near the very door; 
the stylish young man dropping a gourd of lye into 
the pot of boiling soap as coolly, as deliberately, as 
if he had studied soap-making from his cradle. 

The woman soon appears with a small brown crock 
pitcher and a tumbler ; she fills the latter with milk 
and hands it to me ; as I take the glass I catch the eye 
of the young soapmaker. How I ain tempted to say, 
‘‘ Here’s to you and soap !” but the woman is watching, 
so I thank her and lift the tumbler to my lips. Let 
him who can be content with the iced insipidity dealt 
from silver goblets in fashionable drawing-rooms ; 
let the connoisseur in fine wines babble of the red 
Hhine and amber champagne ; there never was a drink 
dreamed of in Bacchanalian philosophy half so deli- 
cious as that cup, drained to the last drop, which the 
pretty mountain mother placed to our lips that sultry 
summer afternoon. 

“ Madam,” says Lincoln, holding the empty glass in 
his hand and glancing toward the sleeping babe in the 
cradle, “ may your sons ever find a drink as delicious 
— and as harmless.” 

The sun tips over the rim of the Backbone and sends 
a long shaft of reddish light into Hark Hollow ; twilight 
will soon be chasing the sun-rays and hanging silver 
stars in the blue dome spanning the Hollow. 

“ Can we climb the Backbone ?” asks Lincoln of the 
woman as we say good-by. 

“ The chaps sometimes does, but they goes round it 
slantin’ wise ; it’s a pretty tall climb,” is the answer. 


312 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

They are the only climbs worth trying; the taller 
the better. 

“Now, Miss Courtney, when do you suppose you 
will be able to make such buttermilk as that?” as'ks 
my companion, when we are out of hearing. 

“ About the time you take your diploma in soap- 
making,” I reply. “Do you know of what you re- 
minded me as you sat there on that stone pouring the 
gourds of lye into the old iron pot ?” 

“ Haven’t the faintest idea,” he replies, “ but of course 
I conjured up something frightful for your lively im- 
agination, — Miss Courtney,” he stops. “ It is a long, 
tiresome, dangerous journey to the top of the Back- 
bone, and there are scores of snakes, and bugs, and 
ugly worms hidden under these rocks we are about to 
climb, now you had best think twice before you speak ; 
comparing me to old Hecate and all that female family 
of witches.” 

“ Oh, I was not thinking of witches,” I reply. “ I 
really intended a compliment to you that time. You 
made me think of Alfred, the exile king, turning the 
cakes for the peasant woman and unable to conceal 
his kingliness even when doing his best to personate 
the beggar.” 

“ Mademoiselle, your servant. I would lift my hat, 
except that I am afraid to let go my hold upon this 
huckleberry-bush ; it stands between me and a roll to 
the foot again. But since one good turn deserves 
another, I must tell you that as you gracefully tilted 
the glass to your lips and drained the very last drop 
of the refreshing beverage I was forcibly reminded of 
the parson’s pretty piggy.” 

I seize upon a piece of rock half buried in the moist 
earth, and he cries, — 


^^DAN TO beersheba:^ 


313 


“ Don’t do it, I insist, Miss Courtney; there is sure to 
be a rattlesnake under there, — a nest of them ; that is 
the stone of all stones a rattlesnake would choose for a 
home. Moreover, you could no more dislodge that 
stone than you could undermine the Pyramids of 
Egypt. And then Tennessee law forbids wilful de- 
struction of property, and if you should accidentally 
undermine the mountain it might involve you in an 
expensive lawsuit. Leave vengeance alone until we are 
on level ground at least; you can just enter that on 
the balance-sheet when you settle that ruffle matter. 
Do you see that sharp rock above us? Well, you had 
best be hoarding your strength to climb it. Where 
are you going ?” 

“ I am going around that rock,” I reply. 

“ You cannot, really,” he declares. “ I am not teas- 
ing this time ; there is a gulch, narrow but deep, on 
either side.” 

But I do not believe it ; he has carried his jokes a 
trifle too far, and I will run no risk of being laughed at 
again. While he scrambles on hands and knees to the 
top of the blufl*, I go creeping carefully over stones and 
hidden hollows, until I stand at last upon a sharp, pro- 
jecting rock overlooking the gulch which I find to 
really be there; from the other side a strong young 
sapling is bending, and I think if I can only reach the 
overhanging branches I will easily swing across the 
narrow opening. I reach my arms out toward the 
nearest boughs. Good ! my finger-tips touch the leaves. 
I stop to steady myself before springing to a higher 
rock. 

“Miss Courtney,” says Lincoln, “you crawl grace- 
fully enough, only the front of your skirt is too long 

for the back width ; it hangs awkwardly ” 

27 


o 


314 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

‘‘ Hush !” I exclaim, and he obeys, folding his arms 
and calmly watching operations from the bluff above. 

Again I raise my arms, draw the strong young 
branches down, hold them a moment, then swing out 
over the gorge ; so close my foot touches the rocks on 
the other side before I swing back again. Then I hang 
helpless and ridiculous, suspended between heaven and 
earth, while a burst of laughter from the bluff above 
adds the crowning stroke to my embarrassment. 

“ Oh, Absalom, my son !” cries my tormentor. 

For one moment I am tempted to let go my hold and 
drop, out of sheer spite ; but I remember how sharp 
and ugly the rocks are, and reconsider. 

“ Hold fast, Absalom, until I can get to you. Oh, if 
I can but touch the hem of your garment!” 

He is coming to the rescue, making fun, ridiculing, 
teasing, tormenting of course, but certainly coming. 

“A beautiful instance of suspended animation,” he 
says, when he has reached the nearest rocks. 

“ Oh, please help me ; I can’t hold on forever,” I ex- 
claim. 

“ To be sure you cannot. How, Miss Courtney, could 
you manage to give a slight kick so as to enable me to 
reach ” 

“ Ho I” I scream. 

“Well, I suppose that don’t stand for yes,” he says; 
and reaching up, he draws the bough down until my 
feet toueh the rocks ; then placing his arm around my 
waist, holds me until the limb springs to its place again. 
Then he quietly brushes the leaves and broken twigs 
from my hair, finds my hat, leads me up the bluff, and 
together we take the “big road” to Dan, — together, 
with the golden light of the dying day flaunting among 
the reddening tops of the bushes, or tingeing the yellow 


^^DAN TO BEERSHEBA.'' 


315 


sandstone dome of the distant mountains where her 
dull, verdureless brows are bared for his last fiery kiss. 
Together, in the slow gathering of the silver twilight that 
is strewing its zigzag shadows across our path and stud- 
ding the azure mantle of heaven with the early stars. 

On to Dan ; on through the broad gate with its fancy 
palings of green and white artistically set together; 
on under the sweet-scented pines and holly on either 
side the wide gravelled walk ; past the pretty white 
cottage with the red roses running riot, climbing in 
the low window and catching the dainty white cur- 
tains with their thorny fingers, while the wind rocks 
both roses and lace in a gentle swing together. On — 
past the long back veranda, its posts of cedar with 
fresh and natural prongs, and fragrant as when the 
jolly Frau Fitzsteiner marked them in the forest for 
the Herr’s ax ; past the pretty veranda, looking toward, 
the distant mountains, sullen and grim in the thicken- 
ing twilight, but always grandly mysterious and peace- 
ful, and full of life to the good Herr Fitzsteiner. 

They seem to him so near heaven, as he sits and 
smokes, and dreams, with the pretty little Fraulein 
Bertha by his side, twining a wreath of the red and 
white roses for her yellow curls, — so near, that some- 
times he pauses with his pipe in hand and looks and 
listens if perchance he may see or hear those whom the 
angels met on the mountain. 

On to the little summer-house, half hidden in cypress 
and scentless wild jessamine-vines, — on to Dan. 

“ Miss Courtney, we calculated time without a time- 
piece; they are waiting for us,” says Lincoln, as a 
white dress is seen amid the gathering darkness. 

“ Hell, my dear, you stayed too late, or rather Lincoln 
kept you too late,” says Blanche. ‘‘ I am always uneasy 


316 the sunny side of tee CUMBERLAND. 


when you two are given full tether.” She lays a hand 
upon Lincoln’s arm and softly strokes his shoulder: 
“We must hurry now, as Mrs. Crawford will be uneasy.” 

“Not until we have had a cup of water from the 
spring,” says Crawford Junior. “You may talk about 
your rivers of Damascus, Abana, and Pharpar, but this 
is the Jordan of them all, — the waters of Dan.” 

We pass through the little gate, down the steep bluff, 
and stand a moment under the great cedars and birch- 
trees shading the little spring which is Herr Fitz- 
steiner’s chief pleasure. 

The twilight is falling ; the golden arrows that lodge 
in the tree-tops are put out, one by one, by the long 
shadow-hands hidden in the haunted hemlocks. One 
star rises above the trees, peers through the leafy tops 
and lies quivering in the restless, uneasy water. 

We pass out. The gate swings to its place, the wind 
rises with a low, tremulous sigh, and Dan lies behind 
us. 


CHAPTEK XXIX. 

« PLEASURES ARE LIKE POPPIES SPREAD.” 

“ What change has made the pastures sweet, 

And reached the daisies at my feet, 

And cloud that wears a golden hem ? 

This lovely world, the hills, the sward. 

They all look fresh, as if our Lord 
But yesterday had finished them.” 

“Nell Courtney, you are the most inconsistent, 
fickle creature I ever saw.” 

I pause in the act of tying the veil about my riding, 
hat in front of the small mirror. 


PLEASURES ARE LIKE POPPIES SPREAD.'^ 317 

“ Gens de meme famille,'' I retort. “ Why.” 

She laughs and says, — 

“As if you did not understand why. For a week 
you and Lincoln have refused to speak to each other.” 

“ Only five days,” I correct ] but she takes no notice. 

“ You commanded him never to speak to you again ; 
he told me so ; and only yesterday I found him moping 
in the sitting-room, and suggested that he make friends. 
I know he was lonely, but he swore with a good round 
oath that he intended complying with your request. 
That was yesterday; to-day you are galloping off 
together as gayly as two larks in a field of ripe wheat. 
Consistency, my dear, is a virtue devoutly to be de- 
sired.” 

“Yes, it may be so,” I answer; “at all events thou 
reasonest well; but consistency is, like dignity, too 
heavy for summer wear. Moreover, I can’t afford it.” 

“ What!” she lifts two beautiful eyes to mine. 

“ Can’t afford it,” I repeat. “ You must know. Miss 
McChesney, my innocent darling, beaux are not as 
thick about my steps as yours.” 

“ Do you know why ?” she asks. 

“To be sure; haven’t I a mirror that repeats my 
features, as well as a conscience that informs me of my 
shortcomings?” I answer. 

“You have the mirror, certainly,” she laughingly 
replies, “ but I doubt the conscience part of the story. 
But to come back to the beginning, you know you are 
every whit as good-looking as I ; as for ‘ shortcomings,’ 
I would exchange characters with you any day and 
consider you the loser. Your lack of attention, if there 
is a lack, is entirely due to the fact that, in mountain 
vernarcular, you ‘ keep too steady company’ with Lin- 
coln Crawford.” 


27 * 


318 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“ Chacun d son goutj' I laughingly exclaim, as I draw 
the knot of gray veiling satisfactorily under my chin. 

She again looks up in affected surprise. 

“I thought you ‘ despised’ him only yesterday.” 

‘‘ So I did,” I reply, “ and so I shall doubtless do 
again before another morning kisses the frown from 
the brow of the grim old mountains; but at this 
moment I do not feel the least anger, and I have faith 
in the power of those fresh, lively horses pawing the 
sand before the gate to keep down all differences for at 
least one day.” 

The clever young actress elevates her brows in holy 
horror. 

“Now do you intend to say you are only suspending 
hostilities for the benefit of a ride ?” 

“Precisely,” I reply, climbing upon the foot-board 
of the bed to reach the little gold-handled riding-whip 
hanging upon a nail, just two inches beyond the tips 
of my fingers. She makes no effort to help me, but 
sits curled up in the great easy-chair, looking so com- 
fortable and pretty in her pink muslin wrapper that I 
almost envy her her lazy afternoon. I make another 
effort for the whip ; tiptoeing does not suffice, and 
airain I turn to her. 

o 

She is smilingly contemplating my movements. I 
determine not to “ beg” for assistance, and impatiently 
reach again for the handle so provokingly near my 
fingers ; the strain breaks a thread in my sleeve : I can 
feel it ripping. 

“ Blanche,” I call, impatiently. 

“Nell ?” 

“ Hide.” 

“ Hide ? for what ?” She looks amazed. 

I have lost all patience. “ Unless you wish to be 


“ PLEASURES ARE LIKE POPPIES SPREAD!' 319 


caught in that thin wrapper and a very doubtful supply 
of underclothing, you had best get under the bed ; I 
am going to call Bob to get my whip.” 

And before she can offer a word I put my threat into 
execution. 

“ Bob,” I shout, “ come here, quick !” 

1 left him sitting on the gallery just outside the door, 
and I no sooner call than we hear a sound as of drop- 
ping a chair that has been tilted ; and while Blanche 
frantically rolls under the bed, strewing the floor 
with a promiscuous line of corsets, hose, skirts, and 
other female paraphernalia in her attempt to carry 
the embarrassing articles with her, and I, in the 
triumphs of revenge, have promoted one foot from the 
bed-board to the top of the bureau, the door opens, 
and Lincoln Crawford walks in. 

Confusion confounded : 

“Is anj’thing wrong?” he asks. “You called as if 
in trouble.” 

From m}^ perch upon the bed and bureau I stare at 
him. Blanche crawls out her covert, dragging a corset 
and half a dozen petticoats with her, and, crouching 
upon the floor, laughs until I could shake her. Why I 
do not think to come down I cannot tell; I do not 
think of anything but the ridiculous situation. At 
last I scream out, — 

“ I called Bob, not you.” 

“She wants her whip,” Blanche exclaims, between 
her shrieks of laughter. “ She couldn’t reach it.” 

“Allow me to assist you,” he says, picking his way 
over the scattered dry goods like the humane elephants 
we have read of stepping over the bodies of the dead 
and wounded soldiers upon battle-fields. 

“Now,” he says, when he reaches my side, “put a 


320 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

hand on each of my shoulders and jump,” and I need 
no second invitation. Then he reaches up and lifts the 
whip from the nail and hands it to me, and hurriedly 
retraces his steps through the piles of cambric. At 
the threshold he pauses, looks back, and says, — 

“ ‘ And I saw a mighty angel come down from heaven : 
and he set his right foot upon the sea and his left foot 
upon the earth.’ Ladies, I have had a revelation.” 

Then he is gone, and, disdaining a word to my 
triumphant foe, I throw my riding-skirt over my arm 
and follow him, leaving Blanche lying upon the floor 
exhausted with laughing. 

Upon the gallery I pass Bob ; he reaches his hand to 
me, but I pass him with a sneer. 

“ No kiss, sissy?” he says, and then I turn upon him. 

“ No,” I exclaim. ‘‘ I have no kisses for people who 
can’t come when they are called.” 

“ Then I claim the kisses, Courtney,” says Lincoln. 
“ Your sister called while you were out directing father 
as to the road to Gruetli, the Swiss colony, and I 
responded to the call.” 

Bob looks up. “ Did you wish anything, Nell ?” he 
asks. 

“ Only the kiss, please. Bob.” And I press my lips 
twice to his ; dear old Bob ! 

We are soon galloping toward the county-seat. Ah, 
this is pleasure : the strong young horses, the cool 
mountain breeze fanning our faces, and the white sand 
flying from beneath the hoofs of the horses. Not a 
shadow of discord jars that half-mile gallop. 

And then Lincoln says, — 

“ 1 am sure I cannot understand how it is that I am 
continually hearing conversations not intended for me. 
I suppose I should tell you I overheard what you said 


PLEASURES ARE LIKE POPPIES SPREAD.'^ 321 

to Blanche concerning your convenient disposition, and 
I am going to tell you that you made the first move to- 
ward a reconciliation.” 

I look at him in amazement, as I emphatically deny 
the charge. 

I can prove it,” he declares. “ Last night when we 
returned from the dance at the hotel I overheard you 
say to Blanche that you were pining for a ride ” 

“ Another stolen conversation,” I interrupt. 

“ I admit it,” he answers ; “ but I will say I do not 
regret it. I too was tired of the quarrel, and was 
watching my opportunity to make it up.” 

“ Do you say hateful things for the sole pleasure of 
making up ?” I ask, and he replies, — 

“ 'Not altogether ; but I do enjoy putting a match to 
a tinder-box, and your Southern blood fires so easily.” 

“And cools as readily,” I reply. “Let’s bury the 
hatchet for one afternoon ?” 

As he takes the hand I extend, he says, — 

“Suppose it should rust in the mean time?” 

“ Let it rust, then,” is my answer ; and again we 
gather our reins and touch our whips to the horses, 
and they fly over the white sand, with the sunlight 
flashing on their silver bits. So, too, are flashing and 
hurrying the glad summer days. 

The scene has changed when we again draw up on a 
flat level, with paths winding in and out under the 
shade of a magnificent forest of young oaks and tall 
poplars. 

A stream trickles merrily along the side of the road, 
and the sight makes us thirsty. 

“ Possibly we may find a spring,” Lincoln suggests ; 
and then, while we ride on slowly, he suddenly halts. 

“Listen,” he says, “do you not hear voices? There 


322 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

must be a house somewhere in this grove ; doubtless 
these paths will lead us to it. At any rate we can try 
it.” 

We turn into the path leading through the wood, 
and soon come to a cabin built of logs, with clean, 
fresh chinking, making as picturesque picture as one 
cares to see. The house sits in a grove of tall trees, 
like a pretty nest hidden away in the shade. 

A great white cat is dozing in one of the low win- 
dows, and a huge black shepherd dog is enjoying a 
game of “ base” with several children in front of the 
cabin door. 

A man sits, or rather lies, under the shade of a tall 
white-oak, whose branches brush the roof of the pretty 
cabin. The children gather about him to watch our 
approach : the largest, a little girl of about twelve 
years, is holding a red string that is fastened around 
the neck of the black shepherd. We have interrupted 
their sport, and the disturbed gambollers are staring in 
open-eyed wonder at us. 

The man seeing us, rises and calls to us to “ light 
we thank him, and ask a drink of water. He turns 
to the little girl still holding the dog, — 

“Genesis,” he says, “fetch the pail and goad.” 

The child kicks the dog, which has begun to lick her 
bare feet. “ Git out, Shep,” she says, and goes to do 
her father’s bidding. 

The man explains the scene. The mother but lately 
died ; there are six of the children. Genesis being the 
oldest; he takes a romp with them sometimes in the 
afternoons, “to kinder holp ’em along and make ’em 
forget they are motherless.” 

Six motherless children, and some hearths so lonely ; 
Fate is mysterious. 


“ PLEASURES ARE LIKE POPPIES SPREAD” 323 

The father takes the pail from the little girl’s hand 
and hurries off to the spring. The girl, Genesis, returns 
to the five children gathered about the dog. As the 
youngest and smallest, a little fellow of not more than 
three years, wearing only a little muslin shirt, darts 
from the assembled crowd and runs down the path in 
his father’s steps, the short frock flapping about his 
lithe young limbs, Lincoln turns to me with a laugh, — 

“Here is Genesis, yonder goes Eevelation,” he says. 

But before I have time to answer the man returns 
with the pail. We get a drink of water, and are soon 
again cantering gayly toward the county-seat. 

“We must not go to the town,” says Lincoln ; “ it is 
too far, and we should find ourselves benighted. Still, 
I should like for you to see the place, — the houses are 
log, all of them, I believe, with one exception. The 
court-house is a magnificent mistake, set down among 
a colony of cabins. 

“ Father attended court here last Monday, and wit- 
nessed a curious trial of a man thought to be crazy ; 
he was tried for horse-stealing, and sentenced to fifteen 
years’ hard labor in the State prison. We will per- 
suade him to tell us about it to-night : he declares the 
prisoner fairly silenced the court, and made a tremen- 
dous speech. He was undoubtedly crazy, but was 
finely educated, had been tried once for some offence in 
another State, and examined by experts. The poor 
fellow managed to confound the jurors most cleverl}^ 
But I must not tell you about it ; it is father’s story : 
he tells it well. We will ask for it to-night.” 

“It begins to look hazy,” I suggest. “It is time to 
turn back ;” and we head our horses homeward just as 
the sun tips the mountains with crimson. 


324 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

“A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT.” 


“One of the Seven was wont to say, that laws were like cobwebs; 
where the small flies were caught and the great ones break through.” 


How little we care for the balls and other fashionable 
amusements I We have our own little family circle in 
our own cottage, and we find each other’s company so 
entirely sufficient that the guests of the hotel begin to 
call us selfish. 

Maybe they are right ; but when one spends the day 
roaming over the mountains, climbing the highest cliffs 
or finding the deepest coves, exploring caves, and other- 
wise hunting the wildest scenery, it is pleasant to spend 
the evening in a quiet, restful chat in our little vine- 
wreathed gallery opening toward the blue, misty valley 
and the far, vague mountains beyond. 

Sometimes a guest from the hotel spends the evening 
with us. Captain Ellersley comes often ; he is one of us. 
Sometimes we separate, some taking the summer-house, 
some the moss- bank, others the rocky outlook upon the 
bluff which bounds the yard. 

To-night we all gather in the porch and beg for the 
major’s story of which Lincoln has told me. 

“ It was only the trial of a poor fellow arrested for 
horse-stealing,” the major says. “ He was crazy as a 
loon ; well educated, well dressed, and was evidently a 
puzzle to both judge and jury. How, if I undertake to 
give you an account of the trial, I shall insist first that 


DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT.'’ 


325 


Lincoln and Miss Courtney take seats at least three feet 
apart.” 

At this remarkable request we immediately push our 
chairs in opposite directions. 

“And I further require that no one interrupt me.” 

The promise is given at once, and the major proceeds. 

“ It was ‘ down to the settlement, or county-seat,’ last 
week, that I heard this remarkable story. I learned 
from little groups of men everywhere assembled on the 
public square that there was a conflict of opinion 
between citizens as to the mental condition of a man 
then on trial for horse-stealing. Opinions seemed to 
be about fairly balanced, some asserting he was in- 
sane, others said he was playing ’possum. At any 
rate he was a curiosity, and evidently had travelled, 
and not to no purpose. While the discussion waxed 
warm concerning him, some one said, ‘There comes 
the sheriff with the prisoner from the jail! The jury 
have agreed at last.’ I went on with the crowd to 
the court-house. The prisoner was brought in and 
took a seat. Order being called, the judge said, — 

“‘Lycurgus McCracken, stand up.’ 

“ The prisoner looked worried, as he replied, — 

“ ‘ I hope you will not enforce that order, judge. I 
am comfortably seated, and I have no inclination to 
make myself conspicuous ; and on an occasion of this 
sort do not wish to come to the front; and if your 
Honor will permit I will remain seated and hear re- 
spectfully what you may please to say.’ 

“ The judge, with a good-natured smile, said, ‘ Lyciir- 
gus McCracken, you have had a fair and impartial trial 
before a jury of good and true men, who on their oath 
say you are guilty as charged in the indictment ; and 
they assess the penalty at fifteen years at hard work in 
28 


326 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

the penitentiary. You will be taken hence to the county 
jail, and there safely kept until you are sent for by the 
State authorities.’ 

“At this Lycurgus straightened himself. He was a 
tall, spare-made man, with light hair upon a small round 
head; his eyes were keen and penetrating, and when 
you caught his gaze it was painful, and you would in- 
voluntarily turn away. It was the look of a hyena. 
He had on a jeans coat, brown, cut claw-hammer style, 
and but for those fiery orbs would nowhere attract 
attention. 

“ Gazing at the judge, he said calmly, distinctly, and 
with evident caution and respect, — 

“ ‘ Will it please your Honor to allow a distressed 
fellow-mortal a few words? I will not be disrespect- 
ful, nor delay the transaction of more important business 
many minutes.’ 

“At this the judge looked serious; but the prisoner 
continued quickly, — 

“‘I, in my humble and unfortunate condition, do 
object, earnestly and with reason, to that portion of 
your Honor’s sentence wherein you condemn me to 
hard labor. Hoes not the court travel a little out of 
its bounds when it recommends the penitentiary offi- 
cials to put me to hard labor? Ho doubt, may it please- 
your Honor, the labor will be hard enough minus the 
recommendation of the court.’ 

“ ‘ The court cannot indulge you any longer, Mr. 
McCracken,’ roared the judge at this thrust. 

“ ‘ I’ll not be long, maj^ it please your Honor; and as 
this is perhaps the last time I shall have the pleasure of 
pleading in your Honor’s court, I most respectfully beg 
that in this valedictory demurrer you will of your clem- 
ency hear me a moment longer. I will be brief.’ 


‘‘A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT.^’ 327 

“And before the surprised judge could reply, the 
prisoner hurried on : 

“ ‘ Your Honor : — When I was a younger and a better 
man than I am to-day, there fell into my hands an old 
law book yclept Blackstone. There is a great deal of 
good reading in that book ; perhaps your Honor may 
have perused its pages and memorized some of its valu- 
able and irrefutable dissertations. In that old and once 
standard work I learned that all punishments should be 
measured by the magnitude and turpitude of the olfence. 
This the court will recognize as a sound maxim. But 
in defiance of such matured wisdom as this maxim 
covers, this Tennessee court , and a Tennessee jury of 
good and true men condemn a free-born American citi- 
zen to fifteen years’ hard labor in the State prison for 
appropriating to his own use an insignificant Texas 
mustang that positively (and I say it cautiously) is not 
worth a tinker’s toe-nail, — is not worth a Confederate 
cuss. The honest truth is, I was imposed on when I 
got him. It was dark. In daylight I never would 
have thrown a lariat over such an abortion. Fifteen 
years at hard labor for such a mistake? Shade of 
Blackstone, look piteously on this great E pluribus 
unum country of ours!’ 

• “The judge began, to look fierce: ‘Mr. McCracken, 
the court cannot permit you to take up any more time 
in this irrelevant display,’ he roared, angrily. 

“ ‘ May it please your Honor,’ continued the prisoner, 
‘I am unaffectedly pained at this judicial interruption, 
and with your permission will dismiss that branch of 
the subject without amplification, and beg you will 
listen while I rehearse the causes that led me, impelled 
me, to become a denizen of your commonwealth. Be- 
fore I enter on an explanation of the causes that im- 


328 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

pelled me to emigrate to this State, I will pay my re- 
spects to a lateral branch of* this subject; parenthetically, 
1 refer to the jury ; and will say for their gratification 
that a more disinterested venire was never empanelled 
on the face of this terraqueous globe. They did not 

care a d n about the case ; they counted up the per 

diem, and were in haste to collect and go down to the 
Brown Eagle, cut up generally, have a high old time on 
wild-cat whiskey, and then go home and make Eliza 
Jane get supper and wish she was safe in Abraham’s 
bosom. This jury system, your Honor, is a great insti- 
tution ; it cost labor and blood to wrench it from the 
crown, and in this model Eepublic it has attained per- 
fectibility. Men who compose your juries are men who 
have nothing else to do. They lurk and lounge around 
your court-houses for no other purpose than to get on 
juries. They are warts on this great and dearly-bought 
system, and what the country needs is a good and per- 
manent wart-extractor. I mean good and strong leg- 
islation that will originate a plan for the extirpation 
of these excrescences. I am done with this branch, 
your Honor. 

“ ‘ One other lateral branch, and I will reach the 
main stem. But before I enter on this, I wish to ad- 
vert for a moment only to the researches of the corps 
of young Esculapians that you did me the honor to 
detail for scientific investigation. They certainly ex- 
plored the whole field ; pulled open my lids, looked into 
the interior, examined my tongue, made a map of my 
cranium, talked learnedly about the diagnosis of moral 
insanity, and after (to me) a most painful examination 
arrived at the conclusion that I was compos mentis, or, 
in other words, had sense enough to know the difference 
between mine and thine. 


DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT.^' 


329 


“ ‘ They made a written report, which is law and 
gospel to the jury, and will go into the medical juris- 
prudence of the country as a learned dissertation on 
the subject of insanity. “ Medical experts,” I think, is 
the name of this judicial delegation. 

“ ‘I now strike the lateral branch that I was approach- 
ing when I made this necessary digression. 

“ ‘ Your halls of legislation, courts of justice, churches, 
hotels, saloons, dens of vice and sinks of iniquity, and all 
other resorts, are infested with a class of bipeds known 
as “ Eeporters.” They are ubiquitous. These hired pe- 
destrians or Bohemians are pushing their noses into 
everybody’s buck-basket; they gather up all the slang 
and filth and dirty deeds of filthy men, roll it all up 
into a compact ball, and trundle it olf to the metropolis 
to be published and sent broadcast over the country as 
mental pabulum for the vox populiJ 

“ The judge here shook his head at the bold offender, 
only to start him afresh. 

“ ‘ Your Honor, I understand that horizontal nega- 
tive of your Honor’s head as advisory, and will draw 
my lines a little finer, for I have been the recipient of 
too many wrongs myself to wantonly annoy the mean- 
est of the genus homo, I will spare the sensational fra- 
ternity as your Honor’s nod suggests. But if a mother’s 
son of them should have the audacity to enter my board- 
ing-house to interview me, you will find him boxed up, 
sent to the potter’s field, labelled SheolJ 

“The judge grew frantic at this, and exclaimed, 

‘ Positively the court will not permit this farce any 
longer.’ < 

“‘Be easy, judge,’ said the prisoner. ‘It will not 
take me two minutes to wind up, and your Honor will 
not deny me that little inch of time. What I wish to 
28 * 


330 TRE sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

say is this: I was living not in splendor, but in peace 
and quiet in Arkansas, a lovely and honorable pathway 
behind me, and prospectively my future was as cheer- 
ful and hopeful as the May-morning sun ; no speck of 
cloud overspread or cast a shadow on the road to dis- 
tinction. Mine was an honored name, and my manly 
and upright conduct, my irreproachable and unim- 
peachable escutcheon, placed me far above ‘the reach 
of slander. 

“ ‘ My fellow-citizens of that great, noble, and growing 
State, without consulting me, but relying on my accom- 
modating spirit, determined in primary meeting to ele- 
vate me to the honorable position of Chief Executive 
of that renowned commonwealth. Delegations and 
deputations and written communications crowded upon 
me, giving every assurance of a fixed determination 
with the dominant party of the State to be true and 
steadfast in their adhesion to my fortunes. I had only 
to permit the use of my name, and there would be 
nothing problematical in the issue: in Arkansas ver- 
nacular, the land was level and the goose hung fair. 
But I had no aspirations for gubernatorial honors. I 
thrust the proffered crown from me oftener than did 
the great Julius; but no protestations of mine could 
avail. The tide of popular opinion could not be beaten 
back. Thus was I forced to the narrow strait of be- 
coming the Governor of the State of Arkansas or ex- 
patriating myself. I chose the latter alternative. I 
made my location within your territorial limits, be- 
lieving that by frugality, industry, energy, and skilful 
enterprise I could achieve success. 

“‘I had not been within your jurisdiction twelve 
months before all my plans for the successful working 
of the craft were complete, the net-work was all finished, 


DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT.^' 331 

secundeni artem; and I had begun to realize only in an 
experimental style, when at the solemn hour of mid- 
night, that dark and doleful hour, when ghosts and 
goblins are abroad in the land, my house was rudely 
entered by your sheriff and his posse. I was immured 
in a prison, indicted, tried by a jury of warts, and sen- 
tenced by your Honor. Fifteen years make a sad 
rent in a poor mortal’s earthly pilgrimage of three- 
score. Fifteen years to infancy and juvenility, fifteen 
years to sow wild oats and daisies, fifteen in the State 
reformatory school j this leaves but twenty-five cents 
on the dollar. 

“‘And now the sayings of Lycurgus, the widow’s 
son, are ended ; the light is gone out in the South, the 
base of the triano-le is missing:. 

o o 

“ ‘ Alas, poor Yorick ! 

“ <■ Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, thou art a bitter 
draught, and though thousands have been made to drink of thee, 
thou art no less bitter on that account. 

“ ‘ I have only to add, as a postscript, my indebted- 
ness to the court for its lenity to an unfortunate. I 
have hastily and in a confused way run over the vo- 
cabulary in quest of words suitable and proper in 
which to express my grateful emotions ; but I am not 
a pronounced dialectician, and in my excited condition 
and perturbation of mind, I fail to seize on the proper 
and expressive terms in which to clothe my thank- 
fulness. 

“ ‘And now, may it please the court, we start in di- 
verging lines ; they will ultimately converge ; and, as 
the otter said to the beaver, ‘ we will meet again at the 
hatter’s shop.’ 

“ ‘And if in the mutations of time and the vicissitudes 


332 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


of fickle fortune you should ever in your peregrinations 
through the land pass through my commonwealth, and 
should unfortunately become entangled in the meshes 
of the law, and a jury of good and true Arkansas men 
should assess a heavy and more than adequate penalty, 
if you will send a respectful petition to the Governor 
of that State, reverting to the incidents and accidents 
of this day, he will in the exercise of his executive func- 
tions grant you such freedom as will cause your heart 
to thump against its environments and your limbs elas- 
tic, so as not to retard your locomotion in getting to the 
city of refuge.’ ” 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 

“Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 

And merrily hent the stile-a : 

A merry heart goes all the day, 

Your sad tires in a mile-a.” 

“Nell, how old are you?” asks Blanche, as we 
stand together under the chestnut-tree. 

“ What a bold question !” I exclaim. “ I am ‘ eighteen 
going on nineteen,’ as the children say.” 

“ Pretty full-grown children, I should say,” calls a 
voice from the window beneath which we are sitting. 

“Eavesdropping as usual,” I answer him over my 
shoulder. “ Why do you ask my age, Blanche ?” 

“ Come farther from the window and I will tell you,” 
she replies. “ Come down the path to the spring ; our 
listener is too indolent to follow us there. He would 


SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 333 

not climb that bluff at two o’clock p.m. for all the 
secrets ever hidden in a woman’s heart.” 

“ Don’t be too sure, sis,” he says. “ Some day I may 
climb a steeper hill than that old bluff for the secret 
of one woman’s heart.” He laughs and continues : 
“How, you two are planning mischief, and I feel it my 
Christian duty to advise you against rashness. Con- 
sult your elders, and above all remember the wading 
spree and the rattlesnakes.” 

He draws in his head and closes the shutter, and we 
go down the path to the spring, stopping now and then 
to pluck the purple and white wild-flowers growing in 
the warmer spots where the sun shines through the 
breaks in the rocks. We stop at the spring, and 
Blanche looks up and laughs. What a great fuss we 
are making over nothing!” she says. “You are nine- 
teen, I am several years older ; both ought to have a 
little sense if we ever expect to have. How listen. We 
will only be here a week longer, and in spite of promises 
we will not have many more chances for rambles. 
How, we have not seen half there is to see, and we 
never will so long as we are tied to Lincoln and Mr. 
Courtney. Let’s break loose. I move we declare our 
independence and get on the cart when John Scruggs 
goes for wood, — he is hitching at this moment : I see 
him, — and let’s have one more real good time in the 
woods. What do you say ?” 

The summer is far spent ; the time allotted to this 
part of the mountains is drawing near the close. I 
consider a moment ; the scent of the sweet pine and 
fresh cedar comes from the thicket below, temptingly 
pleasant and inviting. 

“ Do you say we will go in the cart ?” I ask. 

“Yes, that old yellow dump-cart, with last year’s 


334 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

mud still clinging to the great ugly wheels. The shafts 
are two branches of a young oak ; the gear is a mixture 
of leather straps and twine strings ; the lines are cotton 
ropes ; the driver is a small boy, a mountain sapling ; 
the horse is a donkey.” 

“ Well that last item must be a natural curiosity, to 
say the least of it,” I reply. ‘‘ Will the small boy give 
us cart room ?” 

“ For the sum of twenty-five cents he would give us 
half his spinal column,” she answers; ‘Hhe other half 
would go for less than half-price. I have spoken to 
him, and he says he’ll ‘ fetch us as far as the picnic- 
grounds for a dime, and back.’ l!^ow, whether it is 
your back or mine that is to go to make up the cost 
of the excursion,^ is not determined. The question is, 
shall we go ?” 

“We shall go,” I reply, and we hurry up the path, 
singing,— 

“ Happily, happily, wandered they on ; 

Two is company, three is none. 

Happily, happily, wandered they on ; 

Two is company, three is none.” 

The head comes through the window again. 

“Is that intended as a hint?” asks Lincoln. 

“ A hint !” cries Blanche. “ He must needs load them 
with gunpowder who expects one to strike you.” 

The head goes back, and we pass through the side 
gate to meet John, the sapling, and the dump-cart. 

“ Well, John, we are ready,” cries Blanche; “hold 
your horses until we climb up. Mercy I what a dust!” 

I look at the cart and see the floor half covered with 
dry mud and twigs of at least a year’s collecting. 

“ Wait, Blanche,” I exclaim, “ and I will steal a rug.” 


SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 


335 


And I run back to get it from the sitting-room, which 
is always sure to be empty at this hour. 

“ Heigh-ho ! what’s up now ?” calls the voice from 
the window, as I pass by ; and I answer, — 

“ Oh, you are always bothering and peeking.” 

“ Do I bother, really? Well, tell me what it is, and 
I will help you this time,” he says. 

I stop a moment hastily to consider the proposition, 
especially as I hear Bob whistling in the sitting-room. 
He looks honest, and I risk it. 

“ I was going to steal a rug from the sitting-room, 
but I hear Bob in there. Can you ‘ toll him out’ ?” 

“ Ho ; take mine,” he says, and out comes the large 
drugget which does duty for a carpet. 

“How your field-glass,” I demand, and he passes it 
into my hand. 

I look up a moment into the face at the window ; he 
looks too pleasant, is too kind. 

“ Say ! are you sick ?” I ask. 

“Ho; why?” is the answer; and I laugh. 

“You had such a good fit, I was uneasy;” and then 
I run off to Blanche, and together we spread the rug 
on the floor of the cart. 

As we jump in, Blanche says, — 

“Hell, poor Lincoln is crazy to go.” 

“ Poor Lincoln can do nothing of the kind,” is my 
answer, and John takes up the cotton-rope reins, and 
away we go, bumpaty-bump over the mountain. 

Was there ever such a cart? was there ever such a 
donkey ? was there ever such a team, — cart, driver, don- 
key, and all? And oh, was there ever such a ride? What 
if the bony old beast does stumble and almost drop the 
variegated, many-materialed gear from his loosely- 
jointed frame? What if the road is sometimes so rocky 


336 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

the old cart bumps us almost over the low, end door ? 
What if it is sometimes so dusty we are almost blinded 
with the white sand which the heels of the dilapidated 
little donkey throw into our faces? Isn’t there the 
blessed sunshine, and the cool, sweet pine forests with 
the delicious odor of freshness left by last night’s rain? 
And does not the road wind at last under the young 
poplar-wood shade and then into the forest of chest- 
nut and white-oak? And does one meet such pleas- 
ures every day? It is variety in all things that 
makes them good. 

At last we stop in the very heart of the forest. 

“ Can’t go no farther nohow,” calls the driver. 
“ Tree ’cross the road.” 

Sure enough there it is, a great old chestnut-oak, 
stripped of its bark, lying there naked to its foes of 
wind and weather. 

Can’t you drive around it?” I ask, standing upright 
to investigate the situation. 

“Hary bit, ’thout gwine in a brier-patch. You-uns 
can walk to the bluff where you see it hlue-like : the 
picnic grouend is there. I’ll fetch a load of wood and 
come back fur you. I’ll holler when I git here, and 
you-uns can come. Won’t that do ?” 

Do ? I should say so ! 

“Dump us out!” Blanche commands; “but first get 
out of the road, to one side.” 

“Dump you out?” asks John, in surprise. 

“ Yes,” she answers, “ dump us out like you dump 
the wood ; we are tough as the last load of tan-bark 
you hauled. Eeady? hold tight. All right, John.” 

“ W aal, I ’low yer better turn yer feet t’other way 
ef yer wants ter be dumped out,” says sensible John ; 
and with a laugh we accept the suggestion. 


SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 


337 


He draws the dumping-bar from its holders, and we 
slide out and find ourselves rolling upon the soft, green, 
mossy earth ; even the poor little donkey attempts to 
laugh in donkey fashion, as we are piled upon the 
ground. 

Was there ever such a ride? was there ever such a 
donkey ? was there ever such a world of sunshine and 
rapture and peace as the world we are finding in our 
summer in the.Cumberlands ? 

“Follow the path,” calls John ; “hit’ll fetch you to 
the grouends.” 

And following the boy’s directions we come at last 
to a little nest of a summer-house buried among the 
pines. 

“ Private grounds,” says the little sign upon the tree, 
but that does not prevent our going on ; the path we 
are to follow leads that way, and the way is so deli- 
ciously inviting. 

“ Suppose some one stops us,” says Blanche. 

“ If they do we will stop,” I reply, and then I call to 
her to look. The wind is stirring, and in the swaying 
of the trees I see a deep blue sea of mist, with a faint 
outline of the mountain peaks beyond. 

“ What a spot in which to pass the dreamy summer 
days!” she exclaims, as with hands clasped she stands 
watching the scene through the swaying pine branches. 

Then we turn to the cottage ; we see no sign of life, 
and draw nearer. It is indeed a pretty nest of a house, 
with long, low galleries, and pretty arched roof, and a 
winding stairway leading to a tiny observatory over- 
looking the valley and the far-away mountains ; and 
we begin to wonder if it is occupied, and hesitate 
whether or not to venture in. 

“Best not risk it,” Blanche says; “and yet,” she 
p w 29 


338 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


continues, “it seems to me that if any one lived here a 
rocking-chair would be on the gallery this way. What 
a spot to sit and dream one’s day-dreams in the still 
afternoons, with the dying sunlight kissing the moun- 
tains through the waving pines !” 

“ But how much better to sit there when the moon 
tips the mountain with silver and the wind moans in 
the pine-trees,” I reply. 

And then we go on, past the octagon-shaped billiard- 
room, built upon the very verge of the mountain and 
commanding a view of the valley extending far down 
toward the river; and the grim old bluff beyond rising 
skyward as if proudly defying the baser world below. 

“ Is it not awful ?” says my companion, as we stop 
to drink in the grandeur of the scene. “ Nell, have 
you ever dreamed of a fairer world ?” 

“Never,” I answer. “It surpasses my very best 
fancies.” 

We follow the bluff, stopping often to catch the view 
from some of the taller rocks, or peep into the deepest, 
darkest depths. At last we reach the pleasant picnic- 
grounds and throw ourselves upon the mossy earth to 
rest, with our faces turned toward the opposite moun- 
tains. Dreamily we lie there, lulled by the perfect 
silence and repose about us, each busy with her own 
thoughts. The sun falls warm and tender upon the 
blank, bare balds visible here and there among the 
darker, denser peaks; the valley in its dreamy haze 
but reflects the peace left upon the world ; the heart 
truly alive to it can never be troubled or afraid while 
it rests in benediction on God’s handiwork. 

Who cares to talk when “ nature’s thousand voices” 
are sounding? Silence is the best adoration; joy un- 
speakable is rapture perfected. 


SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 


339 


“ I should like, when I die, to die with my face 
toward the mountains,” says Blanche ; and again we 
fall to dreaming of the glories waiting somewhere be- 
yond that pale purple rift in the mist-veiled mountain. 

After a while she leaves me, and I see her stand- 
ing upon the sharp point of a high bluff, her hands 
clasped before her, a light scarf drooping from her 
shoulder, and the sunlight slanting across her hair. 
Watching her, I can almost believe the graceful 
Oreades still follow the bold Artemis in the wild 
mountain passes. 

After a moment she turns and beckons me to come 
to her, and when I stand at her side she says, — 

“ Look across the valley in the cleft of that old yel- 
low sandstone bluff; farther to your left, where there 
is a broad, warm patch of sunshine ; farther this way, 
just below that laurel-thicket, what do you see?” 

I follow her finger with my eye, and this is what I 
see: a dense thicket of ivy upon a shelving bluff, be- 
neath which, half-way from the foot, a log cabin has 
been picturesquely thrust into the side of the mountain. 
A narrow footpath winds around the hut, and disap- 
pears somewhere among the laurel-bushes beyond. A 
broad, fiat ledge of rocks overlooking the valley, hun- 
dreds of feet below, opens before the door ; a wall of 
rugged steeps and dizzy heights rises in the rear, 
stretching away north and south like the heartless 
walls of fate. 

Fate? Who says it is not fate’s barrier reared 
against the girl standing beside the cabin? 

It is not SO' great a distance from where we stand ; 
the slightest movement of the laurel-leaves can be seen ; 
but I lift the field-glass for fear I shall lose a single 
detail of the exquisite picture. 


340 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The sun is dropping westward, and the long, living 
rays dart under the ivy-crowned ledge, and hold moun- 
tain, maid, and hovel in a shimmer of gold. 

The door of the hut is open ; a dog is dozing upon 
the step, in the afternoon sunshine. An old spinning- 
wheel, a broken bench, an ash-hopper, and a large iron 
pot are to be seen on the flat ledge in front of the hovel ; 
and at the corner, leaning listlessly and dreamily against 
the time-smoothed wall, the sunshine falling upon her 
like the incandescent brightness upon some richly-gor- 
geous tableau, a young girl is standing. 

Her feet are bare, and the loose pink chemise, the 
only garment she wears, but half conceals the perfect 
symmetry of her faultless form. One foot, crossed 
over the other, lightly rests upon the tip of the toe ; 
one arm thrown above the head lifts the narrow do- 
mestic band upon one shoulder, shortening the skirt, 
and showing the round, polished limb above the knee ; 
the other arm dropped carelessly at her side, slips the 
band from its hold, half exposing the bust and dimpled 
shoulder. A mass of yellow hair falls about the bare 
neck and head like an amber halo. 

She seems to be watching the shadows lying on the 
blue bosom of the river, far down the valley. She 
might be some princess taking a sun-bath in the 
crimson evening-time; some young queen weary of 
state seeking rest and solitude in the wild beauty of 
the mountains, with only the eye of nature to see her. 
She might have been, had not fate closed about her like 
the gray walls of mountains about the old hut, grim, 
cold, heartless; only that the wild, beautiful young 
thing knows nothing of the world in which the birds 
sing and the flowers bloom, and the music swells, and 
the waves of hope, and pain, and love, and ambition 


SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 


341 


beat upon the shore of life, and the heart sickens, and 
the brain grows wild, and the soul frets and cries and 
burns with a longing that is never satisfied. After all, 
who shall say fate is not kind, to bathe the free limbs 
of the highland lassie in the sunshine upon the moun- 
tain-side? If only the ear be dulled to the roar of the 
tumult, fate is kind. 

But would it reach her some day, the noise, the 
rumor of the battle? 

I drop the glass and turn from the scene, drawing 
my companion with me. 

“ Let us leave it so, — the memory, the picture, and 
all : come away.” 

And we go farther down the mountain, plunging 
into the cool, dense shade of the forest. We wander 
over the rocks and moss-beds, gathering wild ferns and 
mountain bluets, until the sun begins to rope the west- 
ern sky with bloody bands of cloud, and a harlf-born 
sigh trembles in the pine-tops; then we throw our- 
selves upon the grass, to rest while we listen for the 
halloo of our driver. 

It comes full soon : John knew how musical and clear 
he can call when he tendered that arrangement. Wo 
gather our forest treasures in our laps and go to meet 
them: John, the patient little old donkey, and the yel- 
low, mud-painted dump-cart. We find another has taken 
passage, and hesitate whether to advance with our laps 
full of grasses and wild-flowers, or to drop them. 

Don’t mind me, girls,” calls the new-comer. ‘‘I 
will look another way. It would be a pity to root all 
afternoon only to throw your weeds overboard at 
last.” 

So it would, and we advance with our treasures 
under the promise of “ eyes off.” 

29 * 


342 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


“ Can I look ?” he cries, turning toward us when we 
are only half-way across the dividing line. 

Down go our skirts, out roll the flowers, and we rush 
at the ofl‘ender, who rolls olf the cart, where he has 
balanced himself to wait our coming. 

“I supposed you were ready,” he offers by way of 
apology. He is at last pardoned, on condition that he 
will show us through the pretty cottage we must pass 
again on our return home. 

“Lincoln, why did you follow us?” asks Blanche, 
when we are fairly started. 

“ Could not help it, sis,” he replies, tapping her ear 
with the sassafras switch he carries in his hand. 
“ Mother had company, — some dear old ladies come to 
exchange prescriptions for baby ailments, and receipts 
for the cure of the follies of modern times. Father and 
Courtney were planning a trip to the ‘ settlemint’ to- 
morrow : it was lonely for one of my social disposition. 
So when I saw John dump his wood and gather his 
reins, I made bold to follow.” 

“But we promised John extra pay to give us the 
right to the entire wagon,” I explain. 

“And I outbid you,” he says. “A dollar will dump 
a half out of any cart. Hey, sis ?” 

He again threatens the pretty ear with the sassafras 
switch j she tosses her head beyond reach of the tor- 
menting twig as John calls our attention to the fact 
that we are nearing the pretty bird’s-nest cottage in 
the pine grove. 

Lincoln bounds lightly to the ground. “Wait here, 
girls, until I investigate,” he says, and disappears around 
the house. 

After a little he returns, and leaps into his place 
again. 


SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 


343 


“Nobody at home,” he says; “at least nobody but a 
family of young spiders.” 

“Does nobody live here, I wonder?” says Blanche; 
and Lincoln replies, — 

“ Not in the house, I think. You can see through 
the glass door, — there are no curtains, — the spiders have 
drawn a silver veil the length of that pretty little wind- 
ing stair. But some one lives in the kitchen. I saw 
evidences of domestic happiness scattered about.” 

“What?” asks Blanche, “churns or baby-wagons?” 

“ Broom-sticks,” he replies ; and just then the donkey 
opens its mouth and brays, — “ laughs,” Lincoln says, 
and he may bo correct, for the noise resembles some- 
thing I remember to have heard which was considered 
quite a hearty laugh. 

But then all donkeys have a fondness for loud laugh- 
ing. Possibly I did not recognize the animal. 

Twilight gathers over the mountain. The little cart 
draws up at the back door, and before we realize it we 
are actually at home. John accidentally slips the dump- 
ing-bar from its hold, and we find ourselves dumped 
upon the ground, a promiscuous pile of humanity, 
while Bob, watching us from the gallery, laughs 
almost as successfully as the donkey had done. 

John swears it was an accident, but when we see an 
extra twenty-five-cent piece slip into his brown palm 
we doubt his reverence for truth. W e shall never again 
have full faith in John ; not so long as we look up at him 
from that pile of humanity dumped out of the old cart. 
And we shall look up often as the gathering years make 
that happy day only a cheery memory of a glad youth 
time. 


344 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTEE XXXIL 

AT STONE DOOR. 

“ Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent ; 

Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat j 
Good are Thy stars above the firmament. 

Take to Thee, take. Thy worship. Thy renown ; 

The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown.” 

The glad days are hurrying all too swiftly ; standing 
upon our favorite Lookout we watch the sun fade from 
the valley, earlier each setting as the days grow visibly 
shorter. 

It grieves us sorely to know we must soon leave these 
old mountain peaks that have become friends and 
brothers to us in the swift-speeding weeks we have 
spent among them. 

We are preparing for our last excursion before mov- 
ing to another point. Possibly we shall find that point 
equally attractive ; we have found it all so grandly 
beautiful, all so varied and changeful. 

“ The best for the last,” Bob tells us ; and now the old 
ox-wagon waits at the gate to carry us to Stone Door. 

“Wear your worst dresses,” the knowing ones have 
said, giving us thrilling details of the steeps we must 
climb, the brier-beds and gulches we must overcome, 
the crawling through cavernous descents, and creeping 
under dripping dark blutfs that overhang still darker 
depths hundreds of feet below. These things only 
move us to livelier expectation, as we climb into the 
rumbling old wagon, and go merrily bowling over the 


AT STONE DOOR. 


345 


rough, rocky, mountain road. To be sure, there are 
horses in the stable, and wagons of more artistic shape, 
affording, it may be, more comfortable transportation ; 
but we waved hands in a long farewell to comfort, 
before reaching the first bench of the Cumberlands, six 
weeks before. 

Romance is the object of our search ; romance and 
comfort are sworn foes ; let us look to it. There is a 
lifetime for comfort j there is only youth for romance. 

“ Then gather your rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a flying, 

And this flower that blooms to-day 
To-morrow may be dying.” 

The only drawback to our pleasure is the crowd we 
are forced to carry ; but Mrs. Crawford declares we are 
selfish, and insists we invite Captain Ellersley and sev- 
eral other gentlemen and some ladies. The old wagon 
is full ; one almost resents it as a personal insult when 
the driver lifts the long leather whip against the patient, 
unromantic old oxen, which shake their heads in solemn 
protest against being converted into beasts of burden, 
contrary to all the intentions of nature. 

It is of no use ; all the whips ever made will not 
move an ox out of his melancholy funeral march ; only 
time and patience and persistent pulling will bring 
them to the desired goal. 

So we find it, when at last the old wagon comes to a 
halt and ungorges itself of its load of humanity. All 
too eagerly we spring to the ground ; already we see 
the familiar blue vagueness which clings about the 
deepest canons. 

The spirit of adventure always rouses with a glimpse 
of the outstretching hands of mists which wave and 


346 the sunny SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND, 


beckon and invito us to explore the wild mysteries 
they veil. 

Up — up, triumphant and breathless, to the very 
verge of the awful bluff, standing boldly independent, 
severed by a long narrow rift from the main mountain. 
The rift grows narrower, and Cimmerian darkness 
shades the lowest chasm. Farther down, far as the 
eye can trace the scalloped indentated front of the 
mountain, these grandly-awful bluffs lean threateningly 
over the gulch, held only by a narrow base of stone at 
the foot of the cliffs, seeming ever ready to break from 
their pedestals and go crashing down to wake the 
startled valley. Picturesque miniature forests and 
flower-fields triumphantly flourish above the dizzy 
heights, in blissful ignorance of the doom that must 
eventually be theirs when the rifted rocks shall break 
from their uncertain hold. 

Far, far below, another shelf or bench breaks the 
descent to the valley; and still farther away, so far the 
picturesque cabins seem but tiny toy-houses, the valley 
folks are tending their pretty farms. Miles and miles 
of mysterious mountains stretch before us, some bald 
and bare, ^ome dark and sepulchral, others dreamy 
and uncertain with the fantastic mists which beckon 
and bow in a mad determination to lure us over the 
uplifted precipice. 

We stand with bated breath drinking in the gorgeous 
splendor of the scene, thrilled, hushed, and trembling; 
the chords of the soul respond to the silent rapture of 
a bountiful creation. 

“ Whereunto shall I liken it ?” asks a voice in my 
ear, and I slowly shake my head. 

“ It has no similitude.” 

Then Captain Ellersley lifts his hat and says, — 


AT STONE DOOR. 


347 


“ ‘ Take off thy sandals ; it is holy ground.’ Grandeur, 
peace, majesty, and awe are here. Yerily, these are 
the handiwork of a God.” 

“Aye, verily,” I answer. 

Then some one draws me from the dangerously-at- 
tractive steep, and the spell is broken. 

“We will be forced to keep an eye on you if you 
venture so near the edge ;” and I answer, — 

“ There is a strange attraction about a bluff which 
impels me to the very verge. I do not myself under- 
stand it.” 

“Well, you must stifle all such inclinations to-day,” 
says Bob. “A misstep among these rifts and breaks 
would be to step into eternity. Who has the glasses?” 

They are soon produced, and quickly adjusting the 
focus he hands them to Blanche. 

“Look down the valley, just to the right of that 
green spot. What do you see?” he asks. 

She lifts the glasses, and soon exclaims in wonder, — 

“ Can it be possible those little specks are houses !” 

“ Yes, they are houses, — quite a colony of them,” he 
replies. 

Lincoln touches my sleeve, — 

“ Do you notice that queer, angular point of moun- 
tains before us, — how flat the surface ?” he asks. 

“The entire mountain seems a flat when you run 
your eye along the upper line,” I reply. 

“ Yes, I know; but this special point is a curiosity to 
me. See the immense piles of stone crowning its upper 
rim. How does it affect you ?” 

“To me it seems some grand ancient capital built 
upon its many hills. I should call it Eome. See how 
the gilded palaces of white sand sparkle in the sun. 
Even the old Gothic and Tuscan columns never boasted 


348 the sunny SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


half 80 grand a capstone ; on that special point you 
mention I should locate the Temple of J upiter.” 

“ Old Zeus would have a greater honor than was 
ever awarded on the Mars Capitolinus,” he answers. 

And just here some one calls our attention to the 
fact that the Natural Bridge is just before us. Sure 
enough, here it is. Nature has forgotten nothing: 
every passway is perfect. The rift in the mountain 
which cuts the bluif is spanned by a solid stone foot- 
bridge, narrow, but firm as the mountain itself. Below 
on either side we can see more than two hundred feet 
of sheer hard wall before the fissure closes. 

Such awe, such grandeur, such strength could only 
have been planned by Divinity : such majesty, such 
beauty, such wonder could only have been perfected 
by a God ! 

“ Let us go below,” I exclaim. “ I am impatient to 
see the Door.” 

“ No, let us enjoy the view from above to the full 
before we go down,” says Lincoln. “We will not care 
for this when we return. Those who have once looked 
up never enjoy looking down again ; which, by the way, 
is worthy of note.” 

So we seat ourselves upon one of the highest look- 
outs, and drink in at our leisure the full, fearful work- 
manship. 

Some one is telling, near by, how a man stepped from 
the tallest blulf, one night, more than two hundred feet 
to the terrible rocks below. Lost he was, and drunk 
when he took the fatal step. I shudder to think of the 
frightful awakening, — the realization — if there was one 
— of the dizzy swing, and the hurling through space to 
eternity. Some say he jumped, leaped, and carried with 
him the topmost boughs of a tall pine-tree barring the 


AT STONE DOOR. 


349 


descent. At any rate, the tree is shorn of its upper 
limbs, as if some one had grasped and torn them from 
their lofty hold. 

There was a great tree, they say, once growing upon 
this precipice, which afforded a hold to the enthusiastic, 
reckless ones who cared to peep into the frightful depth. 
One day a gay party of pleasure-seekers came to the 
Door ; each in turn steadied himself by the tree and 
looked over into the gorge. That night a wind unset- 
tled the loosely-set roots and lifted the tree over the 
precipice. Some large boulders followed soon after, and 
since then few have cared to tempt fate by crossing the 
rift which separates this bluff from the mountain. 

We avoid it, all of us ; there is a kind of dread clings 
to it which holds us beyond the separating fissure. We 
climb upon the highest points, and direct our glasses 
against the valley. The mists have risen some, but the 
distant summits are still wrapped in their azure robes. 
How faint and far and dreamy they are, in that blue 
haze ! how unlike the bare hard cliffs about us ! Some 
bold, and daring, and upright; some slightly leaning 
from the main mountain, like young giants that have 
lately learned their own strength and would fain put 
it to the test; others gray with age and glorying- in 
their power, — great, grim bulks of stone, frowning 
defiance to the lower creation. 

“ Let’s lift our hats to the ‘ Old Man of the Moun- 
tains,’ ” says Lincoln, and turning, we wave our hands 
to the daring ones seated on the very verge of the bluff 
which forms a capstone for the curious bit of sculpture 
nature has chiselled in the sandstone rocks, — that of a 
human face. 

We need no aid of glasses to follow the perfect out- 
line. There is the polished brow, the straight, angular 

30 


350 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

chin and nose, the protruding lips, — even the sunken 
eye-sockets are visible. 

“ I find one fault with your ‘ old man,’ ” I declare, after 
noting the clear-cut features. 

“Indeed! are you so presumptuous?” asks Captain 
Ellersley. “Are you not afraid the mountains will 
fall upon you with their weight of insulted dignity ?” 

“ Not at all,” I reply. “ There is one grievous fault 
in the ‘ old man.’ ” 

“Name it,” commands Lincoln. 

“ The old man is a woman,” I declare, defiantly. 

The crowd cheers ; Lincoln looks dumfounded. 

“A woman declares it a ‘grievous fault’ to be a 
woman,” he says, solemnly. “Oh, great mother moun- 
tain, mighty mother earth, shade of our insulted mother 
Eve, rise up and condemn the indignity ! Come from 
your grave and throttle the slander in its birth ; hurl 
your vengeance upon the heretic who dares harbor the 
thought, and still the tongue that gives it utterance. 
‘A grievous fault to be a woman.’ Lo! how are the 
mighty fallen 1 But yesterday the word of woman 

might have stood against the world, yet now Oh, 

Caesar!” 

He covers his face with his hand in mock distress, 
and I retort, angrily, — 

“ Your dignified rhapsodies are more insulting than my 
heresy. I insist the face in the rock is that of a woman.” 

“ It is a mistake, an optical illusion,” he says. “ The 
affinity of nose and chin is too distinctly marked.” 

“Well,” I reply, “the old man, if a man, should not 
affect female apparel. You can all see that he wears a 
woman’s hat, ornamented with grasses and plumes and 
feathery mosses ; his dress is of the same texture. If 
he is not a woman he is exceedingly effeminate.” 


AT STONE DOOR. 


351 


Again he begins some ridiculous harangue, but 
Blanche lays her hand upon his arm and draws him 
beyond the rock upon which we are standing. 

“ No quarrelling to-day,” she says. “We would carry 
with us the recollection of one perfect day, at least. 
Captain Ellersley, if you will take charge of Nell I will 
assume the custody of the other belligerent. Keep her 
under close surveillance : they are sly rogues, and al- 
ways manage to slip the bolt. We are going to see the 
‘ Door’ now and then go below.” 

As she turns away I hear her laugh and say to Bob, 
who is near by, — 

“That old silhouette settled the matter at the out- 
start. I have separated them; I am determined to 
have one good day of perfect pleasure.” 

“ Is it ever perfect ?” he asks, and her face clouds for 
one moment ; the next she says, — 

“ If so, we shall soon know ; for if happiness can be 
perfected it must be here. Amid so much perfection 
there can be no discord.” 

She waves her hand toward the sunny valley, — and 
as they watch it, fair, fruitful, shadowless, the prisoner 
turns unobserved and stealthily seeks a screen of young 
hazel, from behind which he beckons to me. I nod, 
and soon find the opportunity of joining him ; and 
then the rest, talking gayly, move off, and we are 
forgotten. 

“ Well?” says Lincoln. 

“ Well ?” I reply. 

“ Is it well ?” he asks. 

“Pretty well,” I answer, “as I am excused from a 
dignified march down the Door with Captain El- 
lersley.” 

“From which I infer you prefer an undignified 


352 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

scramble down the rocky pass with a ‘ cowardly 
Yankee’ ?” he says. 

“ Just so,” I reply. 

“ That being the case, we will begin the descent at 
once,” he declares, “ before you have sufficient time to 
reconsider. Be careful; you must climb down this 
bluff. Give me your hand.” 

“JSTever!” I reply, drawing back. “I can scale that 
rock alone.” 

“ Give me your hand,” he insists ; “ you are not to 
tempt Providence.” 

“I don’t believe Providence takes time from His 
numerous duties to go picnicking over the mountains on 
the lookout for temptations. Keep away : here I come.” 

And so I do : my foot slips, and I take an abrupt 
seat at his feet. 

He laughs in spite of himself, the while he is threat- 
ening,— 

“ I shall call your brother if you do not give me your 
hand,” he says. 

“ ‘ The hand of Douglas is his own ;’ moreover, I am 
not afraid of my brother,” I reply, as I follow at his side. 

‘‘ Why do 3^ou do reckless things ?” he asks, as we 
take our way down the narrow stone archway. 

“Am I reckless?” I answer. “ I do not intend it, but 
I do so detest the idea of helplessness which girls affect. 
I admire strong, hearty, healthy women, who like Irish 
potatoes better than Maillard’s bonbons, and can walk 
two squares on a pleasant day without the assistance 
of a man. I despise the inconsistency which can waltz 
all night in a ball-room, but grows dizzy in crossing 
a foot-bridge. I like women, — strong-souled, strong- 
hearted women, — not toadstools ready to wilt if you 
touch them.” 


AT STONE DOOR, 


353 


He turns and looks at me. 

“My friend,” he exclaims, “your ideas would do 
credit to a full-blooded Michigan girl. But lest you 
would lose something of the magnificence about you, I 
advise you to look up.” 

Look up indeed. We stand at the mouth of a long, 
narrow passage cut through the very stone heart of the 
bluff. 

This is “Stone Door.” The walls are two hundred 
feet on either side, — sheer bare stone, which almost 
shut out the sun and upper air, so that the passage is 
like some great underground cellar. Hot a shrub, not 
the tiniest fern finds footing in the dark, polished wall. 

Its passage measures five feet in the broadest passes ; 
others are narrower. It is more than three hundred 
yards to the farther opening, and standing at the upper 
end, watching the faint glimmer of blue sky to bo seen, 
it seems much farther. We stand gazing entranced by 
the wonderful scene, when the sound of voices comes 
to us through the long, narrow defile, — hollow, quick, 
like echoes in a subterranean cavern. 

“ They have missed us,” says Lincoln. “ They are 
calling.” 

“Yes, that is Bob’s voice,” I answer. “Lead on.” 

And we take our way down the steep path winding 
through the heart of the mountain. Single-file, for the 
pass is narrow. How small we are ! how insignificant 
in our own eyes when we lift them to the heights rising 
above us, so high the blue sky is only a slender ribbon 
pranking the weird, gloomy pass which the distance has 
curved into a majestic archway ! Down the terrace na- 
ture has fashioned for us, down, still down a second and 
a third, then a careful step over a slippery half-poised 
stone, and the broad, bright world breaks upon us. The 

30 * 


X 


354 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

prison-like tunnel yawns behind us; we stand a mO' 
ment leaning against the sounding stone pillars frown- 
ing on us like the architecture of some vast cathedral. 

A shelving ledge half-way up the steep offers a daring 
feat which some of the most reckless ones are under- 
taking. 

Far above, a man’s foot, the outline of a figure, a head 
visible against the white sandy surface, tells where the 
climbers are clinging with both hands to a narrower 
ledge above them, as the footpath below grows so 
narrow the heels project over the edge. 

And now the way grows broader and less dangerous. 
They are walking as safely as upon the lower earth ; 
the shelf has become a balcony encircling the cathe- 
dral. 

And now they disappear in the deep hollow niches 
in the rocks where the centuries have eaten the soft 
sandy substance. They hide, as many as three, in 
each cleft, and while we watch for their reappearance 
the sound of singing comes to us. 

“ Hide thee I hide thee ! 

Hide in the cleft of the rock.” 

Then the song ceases, the cathedral is silent, and we 
pass on to find ourselves in a world of mossy stones 
and lichen-covered rocks, between and about which the 
brier, and young locust, and wild grape push their way 
so boldly and so dense that we are often forced to cut 
a path for our feet. Sometimes the rocks are so steep 
and slippery we crawl upon hands and knees in order 
to cross them. We no sooner reach a safe standing- 
place than some new point tempts us, and down we go 
still lower, crawling and creeping over the sharp rock- 
piles, beating our way through brier and bush, tearing 


AT STONE DOOR. 355 

our clothes and cutting our hands upon the sharp stones 
and sharper thorns. 

At last we stop and look about us. What a world 
of rocks ! field upon field, acre upon acre. Some angry- 
looking pillars — bluffs in themselves — seem still bewail- 
ing the fate which hurled them from the upper emi- 
nence ; some polished and gleaming in the noonday sun; 
some covered with soft moss, as if already the pleasant 
warmth of the lower world had melted their cold 
natures until they too could smile with verdure. 

We gather under the shadow of a sturdy pine, so old 
its branches droop with the weight of years they carry, 
yet still green and strong, a king among a forest of 
kings. Here we take our lunch, hurriedly and with- 
out the least pretence of manners or affectation, more 
as a matter of business than one of pleasure ; we are 
fretting over every moment given to the delay ; there 
is only half a day’s sight-seeing before us, — and we are 
under promise to return early. Seated upon a great 
boulder, doing duty as well as possible to a trouble- 
some sandwich, I look above me, at the frowning cliffs. 

“ I should like to see the spot upon which the poor 
man fell,” I exclaim to Lincoln, who is, as usual, my 
nearest neighbor. 

“ I was just thinking the same,” he replies. “ If you 
will manage to dispose of that fierce-looking biscuit and 
promise not to faint at any danger we may encounter, 
I think we might make the climb.” 

“ The biscuit is easily disposed of,” I answer, and it 
goes over the rocks to furnish supplies for the red ants 
that are on the hunt for a noonday dinner. “As to the 
‘fainting ’ that is an art I have never learned to such 
perfection I can get up a scene on all occasions. I am 
ready.” 


356 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

“It is a fearful climb,” he says, when we are fairly 
started. “ G-ive me your hand ; I will assist you.” 

“]^o,” I reply; “ I can do better alone. You lead on 
and hold the briers back : that will be enough.” 

“ Quite enough, I should say,” he answers, with a 
laugh. “ Can you make that ?” 

“ That” means a large, almost perpendicular rock di- 
rectly across our path. For answer I set my foot upon 
the stone. “ Be careful,” he cautions ; “ a slip may 
mean a broken back or a broken neck.” 

“ Of the two evils I choose the latter,” I reply, as I 
creep carefully over. “ What next ?” 

“ That dead tree spanning the gulch before you,” he 
says. “Can you cross it? Wait, I will help you.” 

“No; go back,” I exclaim. “It will not support 
both weights, and I can easily cross alone.” And 
slowly I walk over the soft, decayed foot-bridge, while 
Lincoln looks on. There is no danger even should I 
fall, — only a few scratches and a bruise or two ; this 
thought helps me to cross. At last I reach my hand 
to him ; he takes it, smiles, and says impulsively, — 

“ I love a brave woman.” 

Then his face crimsons, he drops my hand, and I call 
to him, — 

“Say!” 

“ Well ?” 

“Do you know why I most dreaded that log?” 
I ask. 

“ No,” he replies. “ Why ?” 

“Ticks,” I answer, gravely; and he says, scorn- 
fully,— 

“Are you afraid of ticks?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then why do you dread them ?” 


AT STONE DOOR. 357 

“ Why dread a tick ?” I exclaim. “ Because it tickles, 
of course.” 

He stops in the act of stepping to a higher rock, and 
says,— 

“ Miss Courtney, if you are again guilty of anything 
so rash, I shall report to your brother that you have 
gone mad.” 

I wonder he cannot see the method in the madness 
which strives to help him out of an embarrassing 
remark. Men are wisely-dull creatures. 

“Look up,” I call to him after another short climb. 
“This magnificence crowds my soul. Was ever any- 
thing so grandly overpowering as that cliff? See how 
the lichens cling to it, and the ferns wave like delicate 
plumes from the very highest rim, and from every 
possible niche into which their tiny threads can find 
a footing.” 

“ What a relief to the eyes that have been blinded 
with the white sand-piles of the other side !” he says. 

“Yes,” I reply; “it is refreshing, to say the least. 
How, if you are satisfied with ‘ looking up,’ look down 
a moment.” 

“ When I do so I see nothing but chaos,” he says ; 
and I tell him, — 

“ That is precisely what I wish you to see : trees, 
rocks, everything piled in a heterogeneous mass. Chaos : 
you are correct. The rocks I am sure were hurled 
from the bluff above, and the trees tossed over in the 
terrific mountain storms. And see how the hemlock 
flourishes in the midst of the confusion.” 

And then we pass on farther, climbing or pushing 
our way over a wilderness of obstructions, until at 
length we stand in the centre of what seems to be a 
vast field of stones, smooth, polished, innumerable, piled 


358 sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

helter-skelter into all curious forms and fashions, thick 
as if a hail-storm had dropped them from the clouds. 

“ Dante’s Inferno,” says Lincoln. “The graves are 
bursting, the dead are rising. Let us go on ; I have no 
fancy for going to judgment yet.” 

“ I should think not, indeed,” I reply, laughing, and 
we again begin to scramble over brush, gorge, and 
stone, until at length we stand under one of the grand- 
est heights of the mountain, — that from which the mad- 
man took his fatal leap. 

“What a desperate plunge!” says Lincoln, reading 
the incident as told upon a rude slab erected upon the 
spot on which the mangled body had been found, 
traced by the vultures that led the way to the dead 
man’s sepulchre. 

“ How did they carry the body up ?” I ask. 

“ With ropes,” he replies, “ up this same bluff over 
which he fell, poor unfortunate drunkard. How forget 
the incident, if you can, and observe the grandeur of 
the place. The unhappy man certainly selected a 
magnificent point from which to make the leap into 
eternity.” 

“ It is too sepulchral,” I reply : “ I feel as if I should 
speak in whispers. And how mournful is the brushing 
of the pines against the cliffs I Listen ; there is a sullen 
roar of water imprisoned somewhere among the rocks. 
To me it is like some old donjon tower. Let’s go above 
where there is free air and blue sky : I feel oppressed 
with the gloom down here.” 

I stand shivering under the damp, vault-like bluff. 

“You are not turning coward ?” says Lincoln. 

“If it is cowardice makes us dislike gloom, then 
count me a coward,” is my answer; and we begin the 
climb up the mountain. 


AT STONE DOOR. 


359 


“ I believe you have some nerve after all,” he tells 
me, when once more we stand in the sunlight and safety 
of the upper world. 

“ Oh, I am well enough now,” I reply, “ but that 
last experience was frightful. I wonder where Bob 
is.” 

“ I saw him sitting with Blanche under a most mag- 
nificent ledge, doing just what every couple here to- 
day except you and me have been doing, — flirting,” 
says Lincoln. 

“No,” I reply; “you are wrong this time. Blanche 
is in Captain Ellersley’s charge to-day.” 

Then he looks me full in the eye and says, — 

“ The idea of Ellersley’s loving Blanche doesmot seem 
to annoy you altogether so much as my affection for 
her. Can you explain it?” 

The blood mounts to my cheek, but I answer, — 

“ Easily. Captain Ellersley is a worthy rival even for 
Bob. You are not.”" 

“Thank you,” he says, with a laugh. “As I have 
often reminded you, your candor is almost as astonish- 
ing as your reverence for truth.” 

We find a comfortable shaded bank and seat our- 
selves under an old oak, to wait until the others shall 
come up. 

After some moments’ silence my companion looks 
toward me and says, — 

“Miss Courtney, you have not called mo a ‘con- 
temptible Yankee’ for at least three days.” 

Watching the sun chasing the shadow-forms on the 
distant peaks, I scarcely know that my answer is 
spoken softly, as if the dreaminess of the scene before 
me had crept into my voice. 

“ I had forgotten that you are one.” 


360 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The reply pleases him ; a smile plays a moment about 
his lips, and he says, — 

“We have not had a quarrel to-day, either. What a 
glorious day it has been !” 

“ Don’t let’s congratulate ourselves,” I advise. “ There 
is an hour of daylight yet, and we may have that pleas- 
ure before it is gone. Only I am too tired even for a 
quarrel.” 

I toss my hat on the mossy bank that I may catch 
the delightful breeze, the forerunner of the mountain 
twilight. The sun has passed beyond the nearer peaks. 
The shadow-forms have massed into a dull black 
shroud. How frightful it must be in the gulch below, 
the drunkard’s sepulchre! I should like to know if 
the shadows have wrapped the ledge in their black 
folds and concealed the slab which marks the dead 
man’s descent. 

“ Mr. Crawford,” I turn to Lincoln, who is idly watch- 
ing the changing landscape, “ if you are not a coward 
step down on that second ledge below us and tell me 
if you can see the objects in the gulch, or if it is night 
down there already.” 

He does not remove his glance from the neighboring 
mountains, as he says, coolly, — 

“Miss Courtney, I have passed the age when boys 
act the fool in order to assume the heroic.” 

Then I grow angry that he has misunderstood me, 
and I retort, — 

“Indeed, I had no thought of charging you with 
heroism. It was merely the feminine failing, curiosity, 
that prompted the request. I did not for one moment 
expect to tempt you to play the hero.” 

“Certainly not,” he replies. “I am the ‘cowardly 
Yankee.’ Where are you going?” 


AT STONE DOOR. 


361 


“Down on the ledge to look into the gorge,” I 
answer. “ I shall climb around it and make you 
ashamed of yourself.” 

I step across one of the narrow, thread-like fissures ; 
he is at my side in a moment, his hand upon my arm. 

‘‘You surely will not attempt to go out upon that 
narrow ledge ?” 

I look up into his earnest, horrified eyes, and 
answer, — 

“ I certainly intend to do just that thing : I shall go 
around the ledge and come up on the other side. You 
can meet me there.” 

“ Indeed you shall not do such a mad thing,” he de- 
clares, tightening his hold upon my arm. “ Your brother 
is coming, and you shall stay where you are until he 
gets here, if I am forced to hold you.” 

Then I grow angry, and shake off the hand upon 
my arm. 

“ If you are a coward, I am not,” I exclaim. “ Let 
go my arm.” 

At the very edge of the bluff I turn to speak to him, 
where he is watching me. 

“ There is no danger,” I tell him. “ My head is al- 
ways cool, and I am accustomed to climbing. Go on, 
and meet me on the other side.” 

And before he can prevent me I step down upon the 
narrow, rounding ledge, where there is just room for 
my feet and barely a hold for my fingers in the clefts 
of the wall above. A few steps in safety, and then, 
horror! I catch a glimpse of the deadly gorge below; 
the mutilated pine-tree far down, lashing its boughs 
madly against the jagged precipice. I can fancy the 
doomed man passing before me, hurrying, hurling, swing- 
ing through space ; trees, rocks, earth, are whirling a 
Q 31 


362 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

confused mass before me; the valley is hurrying down 
the gap between the mountains. I look up to steady 
myself ; Lincoln is leaning over the precipice with white, 
scared face. Seeing this, I too become frightened. The 
heavens join in the mad swing ; my fingers refuse their 
clutch upon the rock ; my sight becomes blurred. I 
am growing blind, and feel an insane, irresistible desire 
to leap from the ledge. I stagger, frightened, puzzled, 
undecided, when a cheery, careless voice calls to me 
from above, — 

“ Wait I I believe I will go with you.” 

This reassures me, and I remember who and where I 
am ; the awful whirl ceases, and I hear footsteps near. 
A hand unclasps mine from its hold upon the rocks, 
and leads me, like a child, slowly back. 

I do not see the pale, scared faces peering anxiously 
over the bluff, watching my coming; I do not know 
that white lips are stifling cries of horror ; I only know 
Lincoln is leading me gently, slowly, I neither know 
nor care where. At last we reach the top, and some 
one takes me in his arms, — the same strong arms that 
have sheltered me for almost twenty years. I know 
the tender, loving clasp before I feel my brother’s tears 
upon my face. 

“Bob!” I whisper, — “dear old brother;” and then 
the blackness and horror return, — my head falls upon 
my brother’s bosom, and I know no more. 


FORGETTING. 


363 


CHAPTEE XXXIII. 

FORGETTINa. 

Long, long be my heart with sweet memories filled, 

Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled ; 

You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will. 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” 

Moonlight rests upon the world, and floods the peaks 
rising beyond the valley. The breeze stirs in the 
branches of the oaks with a low, lonely murmur like 
the whisper of winds among English limes. It lifts the 
delicate passion-vines to admit the moonbeams creeping 
stealthily into our cottage porch, and tenderly falling 
upon the figure seated on the door-step. I watch the 
bright sheen coming nearer until the rays form into a 
silver crown upon Bob’s head. 

Then I steal to his side and, taking a seat upon the 
step, slip my hand into his. Without a word he presses 
it softly, and after a little raises the fingers and holds 
them against his lips. 

Xeither speaks for a time. Yet I know his thoughts, 
and mine have ever been an open book to him. After 
a little he sighs, and the lips pressed to my hand trem- 
ble. He is not happy, dear old Bob, whose heart is so 
tender and true and loving: it is I who have made 
him sad, he who has always been so loving and tender. 
Dear old Bob. 

When I look up, the moonlight floods his face and I 
see a tear in his eye. I drop my own. The wind moans 


364 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

in the heavy chestnut branches ; the tear falls upon my 
hand, and I drop my head upon his knee and sob : 

“ Oh, Bob, don’t! You make me wretched.” And 
he smooths the damp hair from my forehead and, 
stooping, presses a kiss upon my temple. 

Tenderly as a mother he soothes me, this dear old 
brother of mine. 

“ Bob,” I sob, “ I am so sorry. I had no thought 
how foolish it was.” 

“ I know, sissy,” he replies ; “ yet the danger was so 
terrible I cannot forget it yet. Oh, if I could ever hope 
to blot out the frightful vision of jou. suspended upon 
that narrow ledge, with the horrible yawning pit below I” 
He shivers as he recalls it, and continues : 

“ I shall see it in my sleej), and in my dreams follow 
you over the bluff. I should have followed this after- 
noon had not some one held me.” 

“ Bob !” I cry, with a frightened start. 

“ Why not ?” he asks. “ I surely can go where my 
sister goes.” 

“ Oh, if you knew how terrible ” and I stop. 

“ Do I not know ?” he says. “ Did I not suffer it all 
ten thousand times while I stood breathless, praying 
Heaven to steady Lincoln Crawford’s steps and hold 
you a moment more? And poor Crawford! his lips 
were bloodless when he pushed me back from the bluff 
and said, ‘You are too unsteady, Courtney; I must go 
to her.’ And he was right. I should have killed you 
by my own fright, — although I thought him mad when 
he called to you so carelessly to wait for him. He is a 
noble fellow. If it had not been for his call I should 
not have reached you at all. We were coming up 
slowly, preparing to leave, when his shout hastened us. 
He is a noble fellow.” 


FORGETTING. 


365 


What an idiot I have been, to be sure ! I cannot for- 
get that long enough to think upon the trouble I have 
caused. 

First, Blanche had almost fainted with fright. Lin- 
coln was too prostrated to leave his room for several 
hours; and poor Mrs. Crawford, when they told her, 
held me in her arms and cried until nervous headache 
set in, and she is now lying in a darkened room, half 
dead with pain. And Bob is continually upbraiding 
himself for not watching me more closely. As if I 
were some tricky child. 

And most of all, I have mortally offended Lincoln 
this time. He does not so much as look at me ; he did 
not go to supper at all this evening ; he is sitting now 
in the summer-house with Blanche. I can see his hand 
as he toys with the honeysuckle-vines. 

The major, I am glad to say, has gone to Gruetti on 
a prospecting tour. 

“I have caused a world of trouble,” I say, with a 
sigh, and Bob again smooths my hair. 

“And I am wretched,” I continue ; at this Bob draws 
my head closer to his bosom. 

“ Heither of us found the ending of our day so pleasant 
as the beginning,” he says. 

“ But it was my fault,” I sob, and then I clasp my 
arms about his neck and look steadily into his eyes. 

“ Bob, will you forgive me ?” I ask, and he says, — 

“Yes, sissy,” and lays his lips again upon my own. 
“ I can always forgive my little girl any wrong-doing, 
because I blame myself when there is any cause for 
pardon. I may not have been as successful in training 
her as a mother might, but I have done my best.” 

“ How, Bob,” I exclaim, “ that is just the trouble. 
You have done all, been all, are all, and ever will be all, 
31 * 


366 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

I need. And if you blame yourself for my sins I shall 
be miserable.” 

“Well, you are not to be miserable,” he laughs. 
“ Suppose we blot out this day, and each try to forget 
it, Nellie.” 

“ No, no,” I reply, quickly, at this suggestion. 

“ Why, it has ended so unhappily I thought you 
would be glad to forget it,” he says ; and I creep still 
closer to him, my arms lightly clasped about his neck, 
my face upon his bosom, and whisper, — 

“ It did have an ugly ending. Bob, but it was too 
bright to be forgotten. I shall remember it for those 
first hours, and their brightness shall compensate for 
the ending.” 

Bob laughs softly, holds me a moment more in his 
arms, kisses me upon the eyelids, and, pushing me from 
him, rises. 

“ Where are you going ?” I ask him. 

“ To see Miss McChesney,” he replies, pausing a mo- 
ment as he stands on the lowest step before me. 

I look up into his face. “ Bob, you are happier 
now ?” I ask. 

“ Much happier, sweetheart,” he answers. 

“ You are sure ?” 

“ Quite.” 

“ Happy enough to grant me a favor ?” 

“ Half dozen,” he declares. “ What is it ? Are you 
out of pin-money?” 

“ No,” I reply. “ Men always take it for granted 
women are out of money. Bob, I wish to ask a greater 
favor than money can buy.” 

“Well, let’s hear it,” he says, with a laugh. He 
rests one foot upon the step, and leans forward. “ Your 
request, sissy, — lot me have it.” 


FORGETTING. 367 

“You are sure you will not refuse?” I ask, hesitat- 
ing. 

“ Perfectly sure,” he replies. 

Still I hesitate ; he places a hand under my chin and 
lifts my face. 

“Nell, what is it you wish me to do?” he asks, and 
I lift my lips to his. 

“ To kiss me. Bob.” 

“You shall pay interest for teasing,” he says, and 
he takes my face between his palms. “ One, two, three, 
four, five, six.” And then he laughs- and lets me go. 

“ I suspect you have enough for a little while,” he 
says. 

“ No, Bob, I never get too much affection from you.” 
And I answer, “ I love you, brother.” , 

“ I know it, Nellie,” he replies, and holds me a mo- 
ment to his heart, then runs off to find Blanche in the 
vine-covered summer-house. 

I watch him going down the moonlit path, so noble, 
so brave, so tender, and I sit thinking of him when 
the honeysuckle-vines have received him into their 
shadow. 

Heaven never sends a sorrow without a compen- 
sating blessing ; it denied me a father’s and a mother’s 
affection, — it gave me instead the undying love of a 
noble brother. 

I shall never care for any one so long as I have Bob, 
— dear, dear old Bob. 

I laugh softly as I think how foolish I am to be sit- 
ting here alone in the moonlight, growing sentimental 
over my brother, plain old every-day Bob. 

Some one else seems to have similar thoughts, for I 
hear him say, merrily, — 

“ Wasting an entire evening making love to your sis- 


368 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

ter; that may do when there is no other fellow’s sister 
around.” 

Then the owner of the voice comes up the walk, and 
I am reminded that I have an embarrassing duty to 
perform. All the half-forgotten horrors of the after- 
noon come rushing back, a great lump rises in my 
throat, and I fail when I try to speak. Lincoln comes 
nearer, tosses the cigar he is smoking into the grass, 
and is about to pass me when I put out my hand to 
stay him ; it is best to be over with it, I think. 

He pauses, one foot on the step. 

» Well?” 

I conquer the impulse to cry. “ Will you sit down 
a moment ?” I ask. 

“ My mother is not well,” he replies ; I was going 
to ask after her.” 

I bow and draw in my skirts to allow him room to 
pass. 

When he is gone I again burst into tears. 

“He could at least be civil,” I exclaim. I forget 
that I had not been civil in giving oifence. 

I am more unhappy than ever: every one has forgot- 
ten me; so I throw myself into the hammock, draw- 
ing the crimson silk cushion under my head, and with 
the moonbeams slanting through the passion-vines and 
falling across my face, I sob myself to sleep. 

I wake at length with a start ; a shawl has been laid 
across me, and certainly something brushed my cheek. 

When I put my hand to my face, I feel the tears still 
undried upon my lashes. 

The moonlight has crept above my head, and lies in 
a white patch upon the wall beyond me. 

Some one near is softly humming the “Sands o’ 
Dee,”— 


FORGETTING. 


369 


“ The blinding mist came down and hid the land, 

And never home came she.” 

I half imagine there is a sob in the voice ; but I sup- 
pose it is only the sob rising in my own heart as the 
song goes on : 

“ Oh, is it weed, or fish, or fioating hair? 

A tress o’ golden hair ? 

O’ drowned maiden’s hair?” 

With a moan I bury my face in the crimson pillow 
to keep from hearing ; when I lift it again the song 
has ceased, but I can see Lincoln in the moonlight 
upon the step, and I get up to go to my room. 

“ Miss Courtney,” — he turns toward mo. 

“Yes ?” 

“ Will you talk to me a moment here on the step ? 
It is unbearably lonely.” 

I hesitate. 

“ Oh, there is no need of harboring grudges,” he 
says. “We leave here to-morrow ; let’s make our last 
evening pleasant, if possible.” 

Surely I have done enough toward spoiling the 
pleasure of the household for one day, I think, as I 
take the place beside him. We are silent a moment; 
then with an eifort he says, hurriedly, as if afraid to 
trust himself, “I wish to apologize for my rudeness 
awhile since; that is why I called you.” 

He has opened the way for me. 

“ And I wish to — to ask your pardon for calling you 
a — a ” 

My treacherous throat plays me false ; and the tears 
begin to fall slowly, great trembling drops, upon the 
hands folded in my lap. 

“ A coward,” he finishes the sentence for me. “ Oh, 

y 


370 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

that is all right now,” he continues. “ I know I am 
not a coward, only I can distinguish between heroism 
and dare-devilism. ISTow I have offended you.” 

“JSTo, you have not,” I tell him, as I try to steady 
my voice. “ Anything hard that can be said of my 
foolishness cannot be as hard as it deserves. I wish 
Bob would be severe too ; I should feel better.” 

“Am I severe?” he asks. 

“ You called me a dare-devil,” I answer. 

“ What did Bob call you ?” he asks, and I reply, — 

“ Oh, Bob never scolds ] he called me sweetheart for 
one thing.” 

“ Shall I call you sweetheart also, and take you in 
my arms — and hold you to my bosom, and kiss your 
eyes and lips and hair — as Bob did ?” he asks, laugh- 
ingly. “ What would you think of me then ?” 

1 lift, my eyes to his in amazement, as I answer, “ I 
should think you had gone mad.” 

Then we both laugh, and our difficulty is half set- 
tled. 

After a short silence he says, as to himself, — 

“ It was a glorious day.” 

“ It was horrid,” I declare. 

“ No, it was a grand old day,” he insists. “ I shall 
look back to it through the coming years, and see the 
gray mountains, the blue sky, the dreamy valley, the 
city upon her seven hills, and a hundred other happy 
pictures.” 

Would it hold such memories for me ? I shut my 
eyes and see onlj^ the long, crawling, creeping shadows, 
the ragged steep upon which I stood, the ghostly- 
gaunt tops of the broken pine-tree, the dead man’s 
form shrouded in the sullen gloom of the dread abyss. 
I shudder and press my hands upon my eyes. 


FORGETTING. 371 

“ Forget it,” he says, interpreting my thought; and 
I exclaim, — 

“ How can I ?” 

“ By remembering something pleasant,” he answers. 
“ Has the day no happy recollections for you ? Think 
a moment.” 

I take a hasty review of the various events: the first 
glorious view of the mountains; the descent; the dinner 
under the pine-tree; the scramble over the rocks; — 
and here I pause ; one thought stands out bold above 
the day’s happenings, — 

“ I love a brave woman.” 

I smile as I recall his words ; I have found a panacea 
for the painful recollection. 

He turns to me again : 

“ Is there nothing worthy a passing memory ?” he 
asks. 

“ Ah, yes,” I answer. “ Thank you. I shall forget 
the adventure in remembering the pleasure.” 

“ That is right,” he declares. “ One joy will out- 
weigh a thousand heart-aches in this world, for the 
reason that happiness is scarce and pain plentiful.” 

True, I think : fate sends us twenty trials for one 
delight ; yet we remember that one rapture long after 
we have conquered and forgotten a thousand trials 
Fate is cruel, and fate is kind. 


372 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


CHAPTER XXXI-Y. 

MARCHING ON. 

. Farewell ! Under the sky we part, 

In this sweet Alpine dell. 

With strengthened will and buoyant heart 
I flit. To all, Farewell !” 

“We meet upon the level. 

And we part upon the square.” 

The bustle and excitement of packing are over. The 
trunks have been shoved into the hack which stands 
waiting at the gate. We take a last look at the old 
bluff from which we have so often watched the changing 
lights upon the mountains ; the valley with the gleam 
of silvery water threading its way through green and 
fragrant places. The sunlight caresses the mountain 
as we have never seen it before. Nature lifts her veil 
to give us her sunniest smile as a farewell token, a 
something bright upon which to hang our recollections 
of her touch in this land of peak and cloud. Not a 
cloud, no mist, all is warmth and beauty. All is clear 
to our eyes and good to our hearts. We stand a 
moment upon the moss-covered bank, feasting our 
souls upon a last view of the scene we love so well. 

“ Captain Ellersley,” says Lincoln, “ we are sorry to 
leave this pleasant retreat, sorry to say good-by to these 
peaks and ravines and cliffs, but we are most sorry to 
leave you.” 

“ Thank you,” he answers. I am sorry to be left j I 
shall miss you.” 


MARCHING ON. 


373 


He glances a moment at Blanche. She is watching 
with tearful eyes the distant stretch of mountains, for 
the first time entirely distinct to us and visible to the 
naked eye. 

“ I am glad our last recollection of the view will be 
sunshine and warmth,” she says to Bob. “ We shall 
carry with us only happiness and sunlight.” At this 
moment the driver calls to us that we will be in the 
night reaching Tracy, unless we start at once. Then 
all is confusion. We look once more at the glorious 
picture, waving our hands, anfi promising life-long alle- 
giance to the beautiful world we are leaving. We pass 
the cottage, which has been closed and the keys re- 
turned to the agent. The passion-flowers revive, caressed 
by the breeze, to nod us a graceful good-by ; the pretty 
purple blossoms are gone, and the vine will soon swing 
the long, green, bell-like fruit among its dark leaves. 
Aready the place assumes that air of loneliness that al- 
ways attaches to a house we know to be unoccupied. 
Humanity is as perceptible as sunlight, and needs no 
trumpeter to tell the passer-by of its existence. 

Blanche pauses as we pass through the little gate for 
the last time, and the tears gather in her eyes as we look 
back. The little nest of a home, the low vino-wreathed 
galleries, with glimpses of mountain through the open 
ends, the chestnut-oak, the holly, and the pine-trees^ 
the rose-bushes, the ferns, long and graceful, lightly 
tossing above the damp rocks where the path leads to 
the spring, the sweet-pea and purple pinks growing in 
the denser shades ; and the desolate house, full of mem- 
ories bright and warm as the sunlight flooding the roof 
and seeking entrance through the fast-closed windows ; 
— already these are things of the past. 

“How, young ladies, I am sorry to interrupt your 
32 


374 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

farewells, but the old folks will be uneasy if we do not 
join them by dusk, and it is now three o’clock,” says 
Lincoln, and we say good-by to Captain Ellersley. He 
has been almost one of us, and we regret to part from 
him, but parting is the price w^e pay for summer 
friendships. 

“ Captain,” — Lincoln waits, one foot upon the step 
of the great, rumbling old hack, his hat lifted and his 
hand extended, — “ captain, ‘ we meet upon the level and 
we part upon the square.’ I trust, sir, the parting will 
be temporary and the meeting soon rejDeated. When 
you tire of your summer-land, your Southern vine 
and fig-tree, remember you will find at least one to 
welcome you in the Horth. Good-by, sir, and good 
luck to you.” 

Captain Ellersley grasps the extended hand in a 
hearty shake, the driver cracks his whip, the little 
mountain home, with the figure standing at the gate, is 
soon out of sight. We wave good-by to the assembled 
crowd upon the steps of the hotel, — “ We part upon the 
square.” The mountain peaks lie behind us. We fly 
along the flat, level plateau, hurrying on to new scenes. 
It will be difiicult to find anything more pleasant than 
the land we leave behind us. But youth is strong, and 
novelty has a charm to dispel the tenderest longings, 
and to soften the saddest regrets. The country through 
which we are passing claims our attention. There are 
few hills and no mountains ; the level surface we travel 
would be monotonous but for the study we make of 
the various localities through which we are passing. 
One hour we are shut in by a forest of cedars ; how de- 
liciously fragrant and cool! — another, the well-gleaned 
fields bear witness to full granaries and plentiful har- 
vests. Sometimes we cross the meadow-lands, tanned 


MARCHING ON. 


375 


to a golden brown in the summer weather. And at last 
the sun leaves us, the winds freshen, and twilight is 
upon us. And now the woods and corn-fields and 
meadows lie behind us. Eapidly the night descends as 
we hurry on toward the great coal-beds of the Cum- 
herlands. The light from cottage windows grows 
more frequent, and now we rush into full sight of the 
great, gleaming coke-ovens. Like a mighty confiagra- 
tion the lurid glow sweeps far into the surrounding 
gloom, making it more dense by contrast with the 
brilliance from the red-hot furnaces. We pass near the 
dark, silent mines, the rows of mining carts ready for 
the morrow’s toil ; the great, ghostly outline of the 
stockade of the convict laborers looms up in the near 
distance. The fire from the ovens gleams and glares 
and roars like a wild beast. It fills the night with a 
lurid brilliance that sends the shadows skulking beyond 
the farthest reach of the red, blood-drenched hands 
reaching out into the night. The figures passing be- 
tween us and the blaze seem the shades of unhappy 
men doomed to the fiery pits of Tartarus. 

We stand a moment upon the seats of the carriage 
and strain our eyes to see. 

“ Oh, they are only the coke-ovens,” says Bob. ‘‘We 
will visit the mines to-morrow ; there will be abundant 
time before the next train leaves. But for real sight- 
seeing you must see the iron-works. Major Crawford 
will go to South Pittsburg before we leave this sec- 
tion of the mountain ; possibly we may induce him to 
let us join him. There is grandeur sure enough in the 
iron-w'orks. Why; one can stand before those red-hot 
furnaces and see old Pluto seated on his ebony throne, 
punching the ribs of Cerberus with his two-pronged 
fork, while he contemplates the efforts of Sisyphus or 


376 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


enjoys the evolutions of Ixion, — the unhappy Ixion ! 
Yes, we must see the iron-works.” 

Just here Lincoln calls to the driver to stop, and as 
he obeys the order we all look up in expectation of 
what is coming. He rises, steadies himself, placing a 
hand upon Bob’s shoulder, lifts his hat, and says, — 

“ Ladies, friends, and countrymen, — I desire once 
more to pay my respects to the Friend of Commerce, 
the Bearer of Civilization, the King of Inventions, — the 
Eailroad. Ox-wagons and dump-carts may do for a 
day’s frolic, carriages and fleet-footed steeds may answer 
a passing fancy, but for comfort, and strength, and 
power, and magniflcence, the Railroad forever T 

He waves his hat above his head and gives a loud, 
prolonged shout in which we all join, a royal cheer to 
the Friend of Commerce, the Bearer of Civilization, 
the King of Inventions, — the Eailroad. 

And then we turn our faces westward, on over the 
mountain ; with the cold silver eyes of heaven above 
us. On over the mountain ; led by the halo still trem- 
bling in the furthest west ; on, with darkness before us, 
and the great gleaming wave of fire behind ; on toward 
the lights and shadows that mark Mont Eagle. 


NEW SCENES AGAIN. 


877 


CHAPTEE XXXy. 

NEW SCENES AGAIN. 


Though here a mountain murmur swells 
Of many a dark-houghed pine. 

Though, as you read, you hear the bells 
Of the high-pasturing kine. 

“ Yet, through the hum of torrent lone. 

And brooding mountain-bee. 

There sobs I know not what ground-tone 
Of human agony.” 

« ‘ Why should folks be glum,’ said Keegar, 

‘ When nature herself is glad. 

And the painted woods are laughing 
At the faces so sour and sad ?’ ” 

We are settled once more; settled within easy sound 
and sight of the train, which comes toiling up the 
mountain almost hourly. It begins to seem like a dream 
already, our tramps over the bluffs, our rides along the 
unbroken mountain passes, visits to the camps of moon- 
shiners, nights in the forest, with the rush of the moun- 
tain torrent sounding through our dreams, or dancing 
the nights away in lonely mountain coves, dreaming 
dreams on dizzy heights, and building castles in the mist- 
wrapped summits of distant mountain peaks, exploring 
shady nooks and scaling almost inaccessible cliffs, hunt- 
ing mountain pinks and sweet azaleas before the dew 
has dried upon the red and purple blossoms, watching 
the sun rise before the world is fairly awake, wading 
the mountain streams, or dipping our heads in the cool, 
clear ripples bursting from rock-beds under the tall, 

32 * 


378 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

gray cliffs. We are settled again among new scenes. 
Our excursion has been indeed varied. Bob was wise 
in planning his programme, beginning with the wildness 
and closing with this. 

We are seated behind the screen of grape-vines 
which hides the end gallery of the great hotel. The 
moon peers through the screen as it peeped through 
the parted vine- wreathed lattice- work of our former 
cottage. We are separated from the noise and con- 
fusion of the main building, and free to enjoy the quiet 
and rest of our private “ wing,” or mingle in the crowd 
that is always gathered in the large, cool parlor. Bob 
told us we should find this place different from the 
others. He was right. There is no dancing of evenings, 
no card-playing in the parlors, none of the usual sum- 
mer amusements. And yet the guests are pleased and 
happy. The stately Professors who pass along the 
walks have left off the advertisement they were wont 
to carry early in the season under the left arm, — their 
text-books. They have actually forgotten to look wise, 
and an occasional smile forces the opinion that they 
may be fiesh and blood after all. And the teachers, 
young, old, of middle age and of uncertain years, that 
daily pass our way bent upon foraging, like an army, in 
the mountain glens for wild-flowers, rocks, and mosses, 
they, too, are taking som'e color into their pale faces 
and some spring into their tired frames. They, too, 
are having their youth renewed. They are learning 
the old forgotten childhood fashion of laughing, — not 
the sickly school-room smile, not the sarcastic smirk 
of the egotist, nor jmt the dignified parting of the lips 
that may answer for a funeral or a bridal, — they have 
learned to laugh, the heart’s hale, happy old laugh 
that snaps its fingers in the face of cares the years 


NEW SCENES AGAIN. 


379 


have brought, and asserts its own for one summer at 
least. All are young, happy, free again. Oh, if the 
summer-time could stay in their hearts forever! 

“ Nell, what do you think ?” 

“ Sit here under the grape-vines and 1 will tell you.” 

She takes a place beside me, and I pour into her ears 
my thoughts. 

“ Too serious,” she says, “ too serious. Follow the ex- 
ample of the teachers who haunt Mont Eagle ; throw 
care to the winds. Yonder comes Lincoln at last.” 

He leaps upon the step, throws his hat upon the 
floor, and cries, — 

“We are going. Courtney and I have arranged it. 
There was some trouble in finding a conveyance, so 
many parties have engaged them for to-morrow, but a 
gentleman who had spoken for one very kindly gave 
way in our favor, and so we will go sight-seeing to- 
morrow. Mother,” he calls through the open door, 
“you will go with us?” 

“ No,” she replies from within the room ; “ I have 
promised your father to accompany him to Sewanee.” 

“ Mother I” he exclaims in amazement, “ do you know 
what Sewanee is?” 

“ To be sure, my son,” she replies, drawing her chair 
into the door-way. “ It is a most delightful little moun- 
tain city, full of shady groves, artistic homes, and 
elegant people.” 

“ It may be and doubtless is all you paint it,” he 
says, “ but it is more, infinitely more. It is the Epis- 
copal seat of learning in the South.” 

“Well,” she replies, “I am sure that only adds to the 
charm of the place. If a student can anywhere be 
filled with the love of nature, and made to hunger for 
those higher and better things which come with knowl- 


380 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

edge, it must be among these grand old groves of the 
Cumberland mountains. Yes, I like Sewanee better 
for being, as you say, a seat of learning.” 

“ But, mother,” he says, “ the point to which I am 
endeavoring to call your attention is, your object in 
visiting the seat of learning?” 

“ The same that has carried us to every point we 
have visited, my son, — to see the various attractions of 
the mountains. Did you suppose,” with a laugh, “ that I 
had an idea of entering my big Yankee boy as a pupil ?” 

“I was beginning to feel alarmed,” he saj^s, drawing 
a deep breath of relief “Where is father?” 

“He and Mr. Courtney have gone to hear a wonder- 
ful lecturer from Hew York, who is telling the won- 
ders of the old world that have long since ceased to 
entertain the learned or to interest the dull, they have 
become so common.” 

“ I should imagine so,” he replies. “ When there is 
a lecture upon ‘ Yellow Dogs,’ ‘ The Model Small Boy,’ 
or ‘ Mud Pies,’ I shall go to hear it. But travels and 
science have been ridden to death. They are too com- 
mon these days to justify the time wasted in hearing 
them. Only very old men dilate upon the former, and 
very young men alfect the latter. The world tolerates 
the one because of age, the other on account of youth. 
But the world is visibly bored by each.” 

“ When did you begin to be a cynic ?” asks Blanche ; 
and he laughs, knocks the ashes from his cigar, and rises. 

“ Can’t tell exactly, sis, — since I began to associate 
with Miss Courtney, I think. Let me tell you, chang- 
ing the subject somewhat, we will be compelled to go. 
with a party to-morrow ; it is the best we could do.” 

“ Oh,” we exclaim, “ that will spoil it all.” 

“ Hot at all, I think,” he replies. “ It is a party of 


NEW SCENES AGAIN. 


381 


Georgians. One can always trust a Georgian for a pleas- 
ant companion. Good-night ; remember, we start at eight 
o’clock sharp. We visit a number of views on this trip.” 

He runs down the steps, and we hear him humming 
“ Haney Lee” as he passes into the shadow of a group 
of tall beech-trees, and out of sight. 

“ ‘ The sailor’s wife the sailor’s star shall he. 

Ye ho I lads, ho 1 ye ho !’ ” 

And soon we draw in our chairs and close the door. 

As she unbinds her crown of golden hair and drops 
the amber veil upon her white shoulders, Blanche says, — 
“ I am afraid we will not like so much order and 
convenience and comfort after our free-and-easy life. I 
almost regret the ox-wagon and the dump-cart.” 

“ Hot I,” I reply, pausing before the mirror to ad- 
mire the effect of a white dahlia Lincoln filched from 
the gardener and gave me on condition I wear it among 
the laces at my throat rather than at my belt ; as if 
men knew anything of happier effects in dress. “I 
enjoyed the dump-cart, and felt tenderly attached to 
the old unromantic oxen, but I am in Kome. I shall 
buy myself a pair of goggles, a text-book, a scratch- 
book, a lead-pencil, and sally forth to pillage the 
mountain of golden-rod and red sourwood leaves as 
the Eomans do. We have struck the highest pinna- 
cle of the Cumberlands, the literary point; henceforth 
I am literary. I shall attend lectures, absorb science, 
and listen to operatic music, until 1 shall be unable to 
tell whether I am a piece of parchment, a boiling tea- 
kettle, or a grind-organ. Good-night : I am so desir- 
ous for to-morrow, I feel like a child who is impatient 
for some new pleasure. I am going to sleep, and in 
that way hurry the hours.” 


382 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


I bury my head in the pillow, and am soon climb- 
ing in my dreams the bluffs and cliffs about Mont 
Eagle. 


CHAPTER XXXYL 

AMONG GEORGIANS. 

‘‘He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, 

Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars, 
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes between them, 

And fields, where grow God’s gentian bells, and His crocus stars.” 

“All aboard!” some one calls to us under the window, 
and we gather our hats and run to join the merry crowd 
of Georgians waiting for us at the gate. The capacious 
wagon is full already, it seems to us, but the captain 
of the party, a fat, hearty, smooth-faced, typical Geor- 
gian, assures us there is plenty of room. “An omni- 
bus is never full, and no more is an excursion wagon.” 

“Climb up, climb up!” he shouts, waving his hat, 
hands, and feet at the same time. 

“ Climb up ; if there is not room in the wagon, here 
are two seats for the two smallest passengers, up here 
by the driver. These are the best ones, anyway ; who 

bids for them ? Speak now, or else forever hereafter ” 

“I!” “I!” shout a score of voices, more from the 
habit of obeying the captain’s orders than from any 
real desire for the choice places. 

“Well, you all spoke at once,” declares the leader, 
“so can’t any of you get them.” He waves his hand, 
stands up on the driver’s bench, and cries, — 

“ Here, you two ! you little Yankee and your gal. 
You may have the place of honor. You are both so 
insignificant looking you need to be elevated in order 


AMONG GEORGIANS. 


383 


to be seen. Waltz right up here. Steady, now; put 
your foot on the hub, now the wheel, now up. Whoop ! 
what a spring she has !” 

And I find myself elevated to the “ place of honor,” 
crowded into one small seat with Lincoln, 4^he captain, 
and the driver. And now we are off, over the pretty 
little bridges, through the pleasant ground, and on 
over the smooth, level plateau, through shady forests 
of oak and chestnut, catching the breath of the moun- 
tain fragrance as we go ; only stopping now and then 
to gather the full-ripe berries, still wet with the early 
dew. Our heads catch the sprinkle of dew-drops as we 
pull down the branches of sourwood to gather the 
graceful plumes of tiny white bells and twine them in 
our sun-hats. 

The drooping blossoms brush our cheeks as the 
wind tosses them to and fro. 

This is pleasure, real, hearty, healthful ; the chatter 
of voices, the unchecked peals of glad, girlish laughter, 
the sound of the hurrying hoof-beats of the horses, the 
crack of the driver’s whip, — these only add the more 
enjoyment to the drive. 

The captain talks all around ; he stands, he sits, he 
climbs upon the seat, he waves his hands, he shouts, — 

“ Hurrah for Georgia !” 

And the responses come at once from pretty white 
throats and deep gruff voices, — 

“ Hurrah for Georgia !” 

Louder,” yells the captain, who is fairly dancing a 
hornpipe on his high perch upon the driver’s bench. 
“Louder! Everybody holler, — Yankee and all!” 

“Hur-r-a-h for Georgia!” 

Surely Georgia must hear if she is not taking a nap, 
the chorus is so deafening. 


384 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The captain mops his face, rolls up his sleeves, and 
gathers his energies for a new effort. 

He draws in a full, deep breath, places a thumb in 
each pocket of his trousers, and again shouts, — 

“ Hurrah for Tennessee !” 

We yell a frantic response. 

“Louder! everybody! Heady! Hur-r-a-h for Tennes- 
see! Three times! hats off! Georgia and Tennessee!” 

“Georgia and Tennessee!” rings with deafening 
clearness, three times, and the captain drops into his 
place, and for full ten minutes we rush undisturbed 
along the smooth, unbroken level. 

The leader is evidently dreaming. Ho ; he gives a 
sudden start, mounts the seat again, waves his hat and 
shouts, — 

“Sing!” 

And the Tennessee forest fairly rings with the song 
of the Georgia girls and boys. 

The captain keeps time with his hat, joining in when 
patriotism bursts its bounds, and singing — all out of 
tune, to be sure, but singing nevertheless — as long and 
as loud as the youngest of them. 

Ah, how good, and glad, and free it is ! We are al- 
most sorry when the driver pulls up, and the lively lit- 
tle captain shouts, “ Cooley’s Eift!” and commands us 
to “ light out !” 

And we obey as promptly ] everybody obeys the 
short, fat captain ! 

What magnificence opens before us! We light upon 
the top of a huge sandstone bluff, with a world of 
blue and green mountains before, and a world of white 
cliffs beneath us. The gnarled and rugged bluff, tow- 
ering like some unsightly chalk mountain, is twice 
cleft to its very base. 


AMONG GEORGIANS. 


385 


We cross the first rift by means of a rustic bridge, 
but at the second and more formidable opening, we 
bait. The chasm is deep, and human heads unreliable, 
so that we lie face downward and peer over at the 
beds of delicate ferns, nestling in every possible cleft 
where their thread-like roots can find room. Hun- 
dreds of feet below us the tall trees are cramped by 
distance into stunted shrubs. 

Lichens and mosses line the perpendicular sides of 
the rift, beyond, far beyond our covetous grasp. Some 
of the more daring cross the chasm by means of a 
giant oak whose gigantic roots span the opening. 
Three years since, we are told, a man could easily step 
across, but one finds it difficult and dangerous to make 
a crossing now. The wise ones predict that the sev- 
ered blulf will ere long be entirely thrown off, as the 
rift grows visibly wider each year. Standing upon the 
bold, bare crest of the cliff, we look down hundreds of 
feet into Pelham’s Valley, basking in the sunlight, its 
vineyards and groves and cottages seeming but toys 
as the distance dwarfs and disguises them. Parts of 
the valley are level as some Western prairie ; parts are 
broken by the foot-hills of the Cumberlands. We gaze 
entranced ; even the merry Georgians are thrilled with 
silent delight as we watch the quiet cloud-shadows 
floating over the peaceful, sunny valley. 

“ Finally we have found the ‘ Sunny Side,’ ” says 
Lincoln ; and I whisper, as my lips tremble with the 
glories of my own land, — 

“ Ah, it is all sunny and glad, and beautiful and 
good, the dear, dear old Cumberlands!” 

Wandering among the wild beauties of the Eift, we 
catch a glimpse of the whitened waters of the “ Cas- 
cade.” To see with us means to know. Pushing aside 

33 


K 


386 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

the thick growth which sometimes retards our progress, 
we stand at length upon a shelving rock overlooking 
the wild gorge, and watch the waters in their fantastic 
mirth, dashing, springing, laughing, roaring, pitching, 
and disappearing in white foam over the precipice. 

Catching their spirit of adventure, we resolve upon 
a closer view. Down, down we go. 'No one is afraid, 
and we have grown sure-footed with so much climbing. 
Down we clamber, catching at a rock here, a stone 
there, a laurel-bush, anything that will stay our too 
rapid descent. Down through the weird, wild gorge, 
the deep ravine, dark and shadowy, with its walls of 
white cliffs on either hand growing higher, and deeper, 
and wilder, until at length we reach the wooden stairs 
placed for the accommodation of tourists. We are safe 
now, though the stairs are rotted with age and unre- 
liably slippery with the drippings from the giant cliffs 
above. At last, with the help of friendly hands, and 
encouraged by the cheers of the captain, who always 
leads the way, never risking any one’s life where he 
does not first put his own, we stand at last under the 
shadow of the great rock and feast our souls upon 
the wild beauty before us. Down, down come the 
waters, dashing over the mountain-side, trembling over 
the huge rocks lying in the impetuous current, forming 
cascade upon cascade, until it reaches a fifty-foot 
precipice, over which it makes a final plunge in a tor- 
rent of wild foam, breaking into delicate yeasty mist 
nearer the base, and then — the agony is over, the soft, 
silent stream fiows peacefully, quietly on, — “ goeth 
stilly as soul that fears,” to mingle with the blue 
waters of the Elk Eiver. 

Clear as crystal, brilliant with the refractions and 
reflections of sunlight dancing in the descending drops 


AMONG GEORGIANS. 


387 


that go hurrying over the rock-wall to join the silent 
stream below. 

“ Winston’s Cascade going further we can see 
through the veil of silver water the hollow chamber 
behind the fall dug out by the action of the flood, which 
they say is eating this spur of the Oumberlands, as the 
water eddies and tosses and frets through the gap of 
the great cliffs which seem always ready to topple over 
and bury the helpless valley under their mighty mag- 
nificence. 

We wish to go below the fall, but the captain says 
“ Ko,” and no one thinks of opposing his order. He 
rules right royally because he rules cheerily — this big- 
hearted Georgian. 

As we turn to retrace our steps he calls a halt, and a 
halt is made. 

‘‘ How many of this crowd are Georgians ?” he asks, 
drawing his fat face into a wonder of wrinkles. 

A dozen little sun-browned hands go up, and as 
many larger and browner, while two dozen voices 
shout “ I,” “I.” 

“ Let every Georgian shout for Georgia.” 

“ Hurrah I hurrah for Georgia !” and the frightened 
old cliffs shriek, “ rah,” “ rah, Georgia.” 

“How many are Tennesseeans ?” yells the captain, 
as if we had suddenly become deaf. 

Bob, Blanche, and I respond. Somehow one learns 
to respond when the little Georgia man orders. 

“ Shout for Tennessee !” 

He does the waving and we proceed to shout, assisted 
w^onderfully by a small boy who happens to be along, 
and kindly swells our chorus as only a small boy can. 

“How many are from Iowa?” shrieks the captain. 

Lincoln is left alone. He blushes, but comes to the 


388 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

front, jerks off his hat before the order is given, and 
fairly yells, — 

“ Hurrah for Iowa !” 

“ Long, loud, and lonesome,” says the captain; but, 
young man, we don’t have any difference here ; we are 
friends and brothers. Grive me your hand ; shake long 
and hearty, while Georgia and Tennessee shout for 
Iowa.” 

“ Hurrah — hurrah — for Iowa !” scream the stout 
young voices, while the captain and the Iowa represen- 
tative fill up the interval with a shake too hearty to be 
strictly comfortable. 

“ We are all Tennesseeans,” declares the captain. 
“ How, up ! forward !” 

We scramble again up the old wooden stairs, stopping 
a moment for a drink from the famous “ Wildwood 
Spring,” then into the wagon and head for the Pali- 
sades. Eetracing our road, we wind round the top of 
the ridge, with a deep gorge on either side, occasion- 
ally stretching into a tiny plateau, but everywhere 
covered with ferns, mosses, and wild-fiowers. The 
artistic hot-house arrangement of the Mont Eagle 
gardener, whose display of floral treasures is the ad- 
miration of all visitors, cannot compare with the par- 
terre of golden-rod, aster, and wild gentians with which 
nature has decked the mountain top. 

At last we alight upon the brow of another magnifi- 
cent bluff and begin to descend. 

At every step the way becomes steeper and yet more 
steep ; we turn into a cool niche where the narrow 
path winds around a dark, shaded bluff, with a deep 
gorge below. The path is so narrow that a rude bal- 
ustrade has been thrown up for the protection of 
those who wish to descend ; the steep foot-way seems 


AMONG GEORGIANS. 


389 


at last to terminate upon the very verge of the preci- 
pice, but looking over, we detect a path cut in the al- 
most perpendicular face of the mountain. 

Down this we climb, clinging to any support that 
offers, slipping and sliding where the drip from the 
bluff has washed the way; still down, until at last, 
breathless and weary, we stand beneath the silvery 
spray of water which they tell us bears the appropri- 
ate name of “Bridal Yeil.” 

“Not so pretty as the ‘Little Minnehaha’ in ‘ Ste- 
ger’s Glen,’ ” says the captain, when we have spent 
our admiration. 

“ And not so pretty as the little cascade in ‘Juniata 
Dell,’ ” says Bob, “and certainly not so picturesque as 
the ‘Tangled Waters,’ the silvery, winding cascade 
which they say is a bewitched fairy queen, lost in the 
mountains ; the crystal drops are the pearls, diamonds, 
and emeralds that adorn her white robe. The Bridal 
Yeil cannot compare with it, though it is wonderfully 
merry and light. Listen ! it is almost singing ; 

“ ‘ Merrily, merrily, sweetly it sung to us ; 

Light was our talk as of fairy hells. 

Fairy wedding-bells faintly ring to us, 

Down in our fortunate parallels.' ” 

Softly Bob repeats the poem, the water keeping 
“sweet time” as it falls musically over the elevated 
rocks. 

But for all the lightsome airiness of the Bridal Yeil, 
it is powerless to soften or brighten the dull, bare 
front of the Palisades. 

A black mass of rocks curling majestically around 
the glen in which we stand, towering hundreds of feet 
above our heads. Beyond the stream formed by the 
33 * 


390 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

fall of the Bridal Veil, just under the lower ledge of 
the rocks, a bold, strong chalybeate spring is bursting, 
tingeing wdth a red-brown hue the rocks for several 
yards around. 

“This is a magnificently awful-looking place,” says 
Lincoln ; “ but to my way of thinking it bears the 
wrong name. I should call it the Coliseum. Where is 
the spring?” 

“ Behind you,” I reply. “ You see this wild-looking 
glen is entirely shut in by that unbroken wall of rock, 
except for this one opening ; the view through there, 
the blue sky and blue tips of mountains seen through 
the shifting of the tree-tops, is as exquisite a picture as 
I have ever seen.” 

“Yes,” he replies, “the sunlight seems more warm and 
cheery than ever when we see it from this dark retreat. 
Do you notice those tallest poplars brush the bluffs 
only about midway the top ? I wonder how high it is?” 

“ Ask the captain,” I suggest. “ He seems to know 
it all, and I believe he is coming this way.” 

He comes toward us, his hat upon his head for the 
first time since we started, some three hours since. 

“ Crawford, you are accustomed to freezing,” he 
says, wrinkling his fat face, “ but our Southern blood is 
tender. I think it too damp to stay longer in this glen.” 

He turns to look up at the wonderful wall frowning 
upon us, then sighs the admiration he cannot speak. 

“Have you anything as good in Iowa?” ho asks. 

Lincoln laughs, and the captain proceeds ; 

“ Oh, come now, you are a Tennesseean. We are all 
Tennesseeans here. Have your old mole-hills ever 
shown anything half so — hello ! there’s a girl in the 
stream ; wait until I h6lp her out.” 

He is gone like a flash, but the active little Georgia 


AMONG GEORGIANS. 


391 


girl is too quick for him. When he reaches her she is 
wringing the water from her skirts, and laughing at the 
misstep which gave her an unexpected immersion. 

The captain seizes hold of the dripping drapery and 
goes to wringing also, while the crowd cheers, “ Hur- 
rah for Georgia !” but that only drives him on. Finally 
he gives the unfortunate muslin a shake, and it falls 
into its place, with a comical display of wrinkles, ten 
thousand times ten thousand. 

Nothing disturbed, the girl joins in the laugh raised 
at her mishap, then merrily follows the captain, who 
leads us back to the uplands, where we stop to rest. 

“I should like to see the ‘Double Falls,’” says 
Blanche, “ or the ‘ Mont Eagle’ ; they say both are 
finer than this.” 

“There is nothing in the Cumberlands finer than the 
‘Palisades,’” says Bob; “the piling of that almost 
circular wall is symmetrical and precise enough to 
have been done by a. master mason.” 

“So it wms,” replies the captain, reverently, and at 
once we accept his meaning. 

When again we reach the wagon, some one discovers 
that some one else is missing. The captain goes to the 
edge of the blutf, and shouts, — 

“ Come on, come on, you goober-grabbers !” and the 
two tardy Georgians come hurrying as much as possi- 
ble up the steep. We scramble into the wagon again, 
worn out, one would suppose, with the morning’s ex- 
cursion; but Georgians are not so easily wearied. We 
drive half a mile over the level, then the captain jumps 
up, waves his hat, and shouts, with new energy, — 

“Sing! Sing, ‘ Wait for the Wagon !’ ” 

And again we go fiying over the mountain level to 
the tune the Georgia girls and boys are singing : 


392 


THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


“ Do you believe, my Phyllis dear, 

Old Mike with all his wealth 
Can make you half so happy 
As I, with youth and health ? 

We’!! have a little cabin, 

A hog, a pig, a cow, 

And you can mind the dairy 
While I do mind the plough. 

“ Then, wait for the wagon, 

Oh, wai^ for the wagon ; — 

We’ll jump into the wagon. 

And otF we will ride.” 

As the last note dies we reach the hotel gate, just as 
the dinner-bell rings. We are pulled out from the 
well-packed wagon, and the captain shouts, as the 
vehicle moves off again, — 

“We count one more for Tennessee. Iowa, we’ve 
got you!” 

“ I believe he is right,” says Lincoln, as we slowly 
take our way down the pleasant, sunny path. “ I be- 
lieve he is right. I am a convert to the Cumberlands.” 

“A land that glories in its youth, 

That owns no creed but living truth ; 

Where pith o’ sense and pride o’ worth 
A refuge find from rank and birth.” 


ROMANCE. 


393 


CHAPTEE XXXYIL 

KOMANCE. 

“ Some day, some day of day, threading the street, 
With idle, heedless pace, 

Unlooking for such grace 
I shall behold your face ! 

Some day, some day of day, thus may we meet.” 


We almost doubt it is three o’clock in the morning, 
in spite of the ominous knock upon our door, and the 
announcement in a gruif voice, — 

“Gentlemens say, time to git up if you’s gwine to 
see the sun rise.” 

I draw aside the white linen shade and peer into the 
darkness. 

“Xot a sign of daylight, Blanche; shall we go?” 

“ Go !” she exclaims, springing up and beginning her 
toilet with haste. “ Do you not hear Lincoln whistling 
out there in the yard? He is getting the horses. 
Too late to talk of not going, Sleepy-head.” 

“ One would have supposed three o’clock came later,” 
I observe, thrusting a fist into each eye and rubbing 
for dear life. 

“Ho, I feel sure most persons would have thought 
three o’clock comes at exactly the hour it does, — that is, 
at three o’clock,” she replies. 

“That is bright,” I retort. “Your early rising has 
sharpened your wit but dulled your honor; that left 
shoe you are so coolly appropriating belongs to me.” 


394 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“Just the way when one is hurried,” she says. “Nell, 
we must make haste ; I hear the horses below.” 

How pretty she looks in her dark habit, with its 
bright trimmings ! I watch her set the jaunty little 
hat upon her head, draw on her gloves, and throw her 
riding-skirt over her arm. Then she turns to me for 
inspection. 

“ Blanche, you are beautiful !” I exclaim. The color 
deluges cheek, neck, and the pretty, delicate ears ; 
the mountain air is fast planting the roses on the pale 
cheeks again, and to-day, of all days, I notice how 
lovely, how queenly she is. 

She pinches my ear, then stoops and prints a kiss 
where her fingers have left a red mark. 

“ You are a flatterer, you little witch ; but we like to 
be admired, do we not?” 

“ Yes, I suppose so,” I reply ; “ but you deserve it, 
you are so tall, and stately, and beautiful !” 

“And you,” she says, drawing me to her bosom, “are 
so childlike, and tender, and winning. Come, let us 
go. We shall institute a mutual admiration club if we 
tarry longer.” 

A quick, sharp knock at the door, and a voice calling, 
“Waiting!” cuts short all further compliments. We 
seize our whips and join Bob and Lincoln. It is still 
dark, — that cold, grayish dark that always precedes 
the dawn. A few faint stars still tremble in the sky ; 
the air is damp and too chilly for comfort. We mount 
and turn our horses’ heads toward Table Kock. 

“ How far ?” asks Blanche. 

“ Three miles, by the wagon-road. We will have no 
time to spare ; daylight comes quickly when once it 
tips the mountain tops,” says Eobert. 

And we gallop off in the gray gloom, past the woods, 


ROMANCE. 


395 


dull and silent, past the pretty farm-houses, from whose 
barns the watchful chanticleer crows us a startled good- 
morning, or a watch-dog bays at the unexpected ap- 
proach of strangers at this unusual hour. 

And now the gray dawn hovers in the east ] the out- 
line of familiar objects grows more distinct; the last 
star trembles and fades in the growing light. The 
morning wind tosses the dew-laden branches of the 
white-belled sourwood against our flushed temples, a 
salute for early rising. Chanticleer responds to chan- 
ticleer, and somewhere beyond the woods a milkmaid 
is musically calling, “ Soo cow, soo cow,” and a hun- 
gry calf lends its plaintive pleading to the welcome 
call. 

And now we catch the tinkle of a bell, and a pair of 
spreading horns above the reddening sumach-bushes 
tells us the beast has heard, and is hurrying to respond 
in person to the milkmaid’s call. 

The gray grows stronger in the east, and when we 
at last check our horses upon the bluff at Table Eock, 
a faint rose-flush trembles above the dark peaks of 
the farther mountains. 

We dismount, twist our reins into the twigs of a 
young sapling, and climb the rock, a lofty column of 
stone with its base planted in the mountain-side ; the 
column towers majestically above a lonely gorge, into 
whose dark depths the dawning light has not yet 
penetrated. 

The pedestal is capped by a smooth, polished rock, 
with rounded corners and systematic curves ; to these 
it owes its name. 

Not a fern, not even the hardy mosses obtrude upon 
the polished surface ; it is indeed a table, and of rare 
beauty. Far below where we stand, the fertile farm- 


396 the sunny SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

lands are shrouded in night; across, the dark, majestic 
mountains rise, dimly perceptible in their gray shroud 
of mist. 

We climb upon the rock by means of a ladder, and 
stand patiently watching the deepening blush upon the 
eastern horizon ; a dull purplish cloud bounds the 
lower rim of the rose flush, and Robert drops the 
glasses in dismay. 

What is it ?” asks Lincoln. 

“Are you so poor a weather prophet you cannot see 
that the morning will be clouded ?” he replies. 

“ Oh cries Blanche, “ you are a bird of ill omen : 
if you have dared to rob us of four hours’ sleep for a 
cloudy sunrise, you have placed your life in jeopardy.” 

“ It is too bad,” he declares. “ What can we do ?” 

“Wait on his majesty,” replies Lincoln. 

“And while waiting, let us go over to that point of 
rocks about fifty yards to your left and take a look at 
the Giant’s Coffin.” 

“Or the Leaning Tower,” cries Lincoln. “That 
must be it, that towering column of piled-up stone 
leaning above the gorge. How many magnificent 
views are crowded into a few hundred yards of space I” 

Down we scramble over the shaky old ladder, and 
beat our way over the dewy tangles of wild grasses 
and vines, down among the huckleberry-bushes and 
silvery sassafras-leaves, until we stand upon the won- 
derful, weather-worn casket in which the giant of the 
Cumberlands is supposed to be waiting the resurrection 
morn. This also overlooks the deep, dangerous gorge, 
and no doubt the sleeping Hercules supposed his rock- 
ribbed tomb, dug in the very verge of the stupendous 
cliff, with steep crags above and eternity below, would 
forever be free from intrusion. 


ROMANCE. 397 

He had not reckoned the strength of the millions to 
be after him. 

In the gray gloom of the early morning the “ coffin” 
looks weird and uncanny, because of the name perhaps. 

“ I do not believe any giant ever twisted his body to 
fit this contortion,” says Lincoln. 

“It is weather-beaten,” says Bob, “and the simile 
somewhat marred.” 

“ Yonder is the Leaning Tower,” says Eobert, point- 
ing across a narrow but deep gorge ; “ it is, however, 
impossible to reach it: the ladder is unsafe, and the 
sides of the cliff are covered with poison-oak.” 

The great, gaunt column towering threateningly 
above the gorge has the appearance of a huge mon- 
ster preparing for a spring at an unsuspecting victim. 

“How those stanch chestnuts and poplars must 
quake with fear when a storm sweeps the mountain !” 
says Blanche ; and then she turns toward Table Eock. 
“Oh, look!” she exclaims; “was ever anything so 
grandly gorgeous ?” 

Without ceremony we fly back to Table Eock. The 
purple cloud has risen far up into the heavens, and the 
great round red sun peers with a glowering eye of fire 
over the tallest summit of the mountain. The peaks 
are a bed of angry flame ; the red rays dart into the 
piny crests and chase the shadows with burning fire- 
brands down the mountain-side; and yet the valley, 
dark and lonely, is wrapped in midnight stillness. 

The eye behind the distant peak grows fuller ; the 
crimson blood-stains from his trailing garments fall be- 
hind him; he peers boldly into the gloomy gorges, still 
wrapped in night. We hold our breath in admiration. 
Hot a sound, not a whisper, not a leaf breaks the still- 
ness, as*the king of light gathers his red robes closer 


398 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


about him, rises, rises above the tallest pines, swings 
clear of the mountain, and goes proudly sailing along 
the heavens. 

We breathe again: the royal messenger goes on, 
the day is here. 

“Was ever anything so grand as nature?” 

“ Put it ‘ nature in the Cumberlands’ and I’ll agree,” 
says Lincoln. 

“ How about the morning nap ?” asks Eobert j “ are 
you paid for the loss of it ?” 

“A thousand times,” we answer, and he reminds us 
we will be late to breakfast. A potent reminder to 
bring us back to earth, for we have learned the effect 
of mountain air and mountain rambles upon the 
appetite. 

As we gallop homeward in the full light of day, 
Lincoln asks, — 

“ What do you expect Madam Grundy to say of this 
ante-daylight excursion ?” 

“ I am more concerned as to what Madam Crawford 
will say,” I reply. “You know we snapped our fin- 
gers in the face of the Grundy nuisance long ago, 
about the time we voted nervousness a failure and 
chaperons a fraud.” 

And here I chance to look at the two graceful fig- 
ures riding down the shady road before us. They 
pass under the low, drooping boughs of trees that skirt 
the road. Blanche turns her head to one side to avoid 
a contact ; the flush upon her cheeks has deepened 
to a carmine in the morning gallop. 

“How beautiful Blanche is!” I exclaim, almost un- 
consciously, and Lincoln replies, — 

“ I, too, was thinking she looked unusually well this 


ROMANCE. 399 

And then we fall into pleasant musing, which re- 
mains unbroken until we dismount at the door. 

Major Crawford meets us in the hall. 

“ Gathering roses with the dew upon them generally 
pays a forfeit of cold biscuit and hard eggs. You are 
late : breakfast is almost over.” 

“ISTever mind, it is no matter; we culled the roses,” 
says Blanche, touching a forefinger to her cheek. 
“ The early train has come in during our absence ; 
let us see who came.” She draws the register to her, 
and I peep over her arm as she runs a finger down the 
column of names. 

Suddenly the finger comes to a dead stop ; the hands 
fall helpless upon the page as she lifts her eyes, full of 
inquiry, regret, and pain, to Lincoln Crawford’s. I 
read the name her finger is still pointing out. 

“ Dennis Ehea.” Almost immediately I look again 
into her face, but it. has assumed its accustomed ex- 
pression. I wonder if I could have imagined the start 
of sorrowful surprise, when Lincoln says, gayly, — 

“ Let us breakfast as we are.” And as she laughs 
and merrily follows him into the dining-room, I am 
sure I must have been mistaken in supposing her an- 
noyed by the arrival of Dennis Ehea. 

A dark, handsome stranger is sitting alone at one of 
the tables, idly toying with his knife and fork. As we 
enter he lifts his head, and at sight of Blanche drops 
the knife and fork, and pushes his chair back as if 
about to get up; then he seems to reconsider, and 
soon resumes his former indolent, indifi'erent air. 

Where have I seen the handsome, haughty face ? 
Somewhere, I am sure. I drop my chin into my 
palm, and sit thinking. Whenever I look up I notice 
the dark brown eyes are fixed upon the crown of 


400 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


golden hair opposite me. At last I remember with 
a start: it is the face in the black onyx locket. There 
they are, the two types side by side, as I saw them in 
the small gold frame of the locket. 

I hastily surmise : Dennis Ehea is, or has been, a 
lover; Blanche McChesney is, or has been, unjustly - 
treated. Something has been, or will be, — something 
in the line of romance. 

At last the stranger pushes his chair back and rises; 
he is full six feet, graceful, well-proportioned, easy. 
He almost passes our table when, suddenly, as if I did 
not know he has been watching her all the while, he 
sees Blanche. She, too, looks up at the same moment ; 
he stops, holds out his hand, and exclaims, — 

“ One never can foresee the surprises that await him 
at summer watering-places; Miss McChesney, I am 
charmed to meet you again.” 

Then follow the usual introductions, and Dennis 
Ehea takes the vacant chair at the end of the table 
and makes himself one of us. 

“ You have been out already ?” he asks, noticing the 
riding-habit. 

“Yes; we started at three o’clock to catch the sun- 
rise from Table Eock,” she replies. 

“And you caught some very becoming coloring for 
your cheeks at the same time,” he observes, smiling. 

“ Oh, these mountains are sworn foes to cosmetics,” 
she replies. “ They have persuaded the Irish in my 
blood to assert itself. When did you get here? I no- 
ticed your arrival on the register as we came through.” 

It may be an idea, but I am confident there is a 
slight hint of exultation in her voice as she says this. 
Does she wish him to understand she felt no unusual 
embarrassment for his coming ? I think so. 


ROMANCE. 


401 


Before he can answer, some one attracts her atten- 
tion. 

“ Pardon me for the interruption,” says a gentleman 
at her elbow ; “ we are going this afternoon to see the 
sun set from the most romantic spot on the mountain, 
— Sunset Eock, or, as some call it, ‘ Duncan’s Point.’ 
Knowing something of the number of your engage- 
ments, I come early. May I have the pleasure of your 
company on this tramp ? The distance is not great, 
and the rock well worth the tramp.” 

“ I am sorry to say no so often,” she replies ; “but I 
am engaged for this particularly romantic tramp. If 
there is another ” 

She pauses. 

“ There is,” he eagerly replies. “ There will be an 
excursion to Forest Point to-morrow afternoon. Are 
you engaged for that also?” 

“ Ko, and I am glad it is so : we will call it an en- 
gagement ?” 

“With your consent,” he replies. “Some declare 
the view is finer there than at Sunset Eock. I am 
sure I shall find it so in such excellent company.” He 
smiles, bows, and withdraws, and we soon rise and 
leave the breakfast-room. 

As we reach the outer hall I hear Dennis Ehea’s 
voice saying, in an undertone, — 

“ When can I see you, Blanche ?” 

“ At any hour you name,” she replies. But there is 
neither warmth, pleasure, nor feeling in the tone in 
which she says it. 

“ So it would seem,” he says, with a sneer, “ when 
you have engagements for a week ahead.” 

She makes no reply. 

After a moment he says, — 

34 * 


aa 


402 the sue NY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


“ Can I have this forenoon ?” 

Then she looks him in the face and answers, — 

“ If you wish.” 

And I pass out of reach of the conversation not in- 
tended for me. 

Half an hour later she comes down dressed in a 
short, dark walking-suit, and joins Dennis Ehea where 
he waits for her under the shade of the children’s 
pavilion. Together they pass out at the gate, and 
soon their forms disappear in the neighboring wood. 

Passing Bob’s door soon after, I see him lying on a 
sofa, looking pale and wearied. 

“ Is Bob sick ?” I ask' myself, and I trip in softly. 
He pretends to be sleeping, but I know better. I saw 
the lids close when he heard me in the door-way. 

Poor Bob ! I stoop and leave a kiss on the heavy 
eyes, and draw the curtain that he may be able to sleep. 
Dear, dear old Bob ! Such ups and downs have lovers. 


CHAPTEE XXXYIII. 

THE LEGEND OF SUNSET KOCK. 

Like a cloud of mist the blackness 
Rolled from the magic stone, 

And a marvellous picture mingled 
The unknown and the known.” 

The glad days are crowding a lifetime of pleasure 
into our brief summer. 

At five o’clock we congregate under the shade of the 
beech grove and head for the Sunset Eock. 


THE LEGEND OF SUNSET ROCK. 


403 


How easy and trustful and friendly these Southern 
people who congregate each summer in the mountains. 
Who would believe fourscore or more weary school- 
teachers, girls grown old before they have reached 
their majority, solemn professors gray with science, 
and young men bent upon the still distant goal of 
distinction,— who would have thought they could have 
thrown aside their classic cloaks and become hearty, 
happy creatures again ? 

“ Ho you know I believe in the fountain of youth ?” 
says Blanche, as we merrily follow the foot-path 
through the deep, fragrant forest. 

“ No ? What has converted you T' asks a young, 
sandy-haired professor, with a very soft voice and gen- 
tle manner, who usually leads the excursions ; “ and 
where do you think the blessed fount is located?” 

“ In the Cumberlands,” she replies. “ One grows 
young almost before he is aware .of it in these moun- 
tains. Who of us at home would attempt a three-, 
four-, and sometimes five-mile walk on an afternoon in 
August ? Why ” 

Suddenly she stops to contemplate a gaunt figure 
just emerging from a shaded path leading from a little 
cove upon our right. 

“ What is it ?” she asks, with a comical attempt at 
seriousness. 

“ Have you never met the peach-peddler?” asks the 
Professor. “You have missed a treat, I can tell you; 
he is well worth knowing. Listen !” 

“ Pea-ches, pe-a-ch-e-s ; twenty-six fur a dime I” 

“ Cheap enough, I should say,” laughs Blanche. 

“ And good enough,” replies the Profess.or. “ Here, 
Billy!” 

The long, lank, loose-jointed figure slowly ambles our 


404 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


way, crying all the while in a sort of monotonous 
wail, — 

“ Pe-a-ch-es, pe-a-ch-e-s ; twenty-six fur a dime.’' 

A yellow-looking hag is gathered on one arm, while 
under the other is tucked a round tin pan ; there are 
always twenty-six peaches in the pan. As soon as it 
is emptied, another twenty-six is poured in from the 
yellow bag. 

But whatever may be said of the peddler, or the 
mode of peddling, there is no discount on the fruit, 
red and gold peaches, deliciously juicy and sweet, the 
pride of the Cumberland fruit-growers. 

We empty the pan and make such an impression 
upon the bag that Billy ambles down the path again 
to renew his stock. 

The hotel people always like peaches in the evenings, 
or early mornings, when the dew is still upon their 
downy cheeks, and the peddler times his visits accord- 
ingly. 

“What a funny-looking individual!” says Blanche, 
as the man disappears beyond the laurel-bushes. 

“And funny as he looks,” declares the Professor. 
“A most ‘ephentical man,’ the mountain people would 
say. Last year a young lady gave him, by accident, 
a silver dime with a hole in it. When she returned 
this season the mutilated coin was presented to be re- 
funded.” 

“ He is not a good Tennesseean I imagine ; he be- 
lieves in refunding,” Lincoln remarks. 

“How, Crawford, we’ll not take that from a stran- 
ger,” exclaims the Professor. “ There are Tennessee- 
ans enough in this crowd to throw you over the 
blulf.” 

He shakes a large ash stick at him. The threat has 


THE LEGEND OF SUNSET ROCK. 


405 


the desired eifect, and so, laughing, jesting, and singing, 
we trudge merrily through the woods until at length 
we reach our destination. 

Poised boldly above the mountain side, its base hid- 
den among the laurel and ivy growth, towers the bare 
brow of the Sunset Rock. 

Rising like some great bird from its nest of trees 
and clinging undergrowth which cover the precipitous 
ascent, reaching far out beyond and above the largest 
branches, it commands a magnificent view of the long, 
narrow valley, stretching westward, affords a pretty 
peep at the village of Pelham, crouching under the 
protecting shadow of the mountain, and offers an un- 
broken path for the eye to the fire-beds of the setting 
sun ; and, situated as it is, at a kind of turn or corner 
of the mountain, it commands almost as clear a view 
of the eastern horizon. 

In early morning one side of the rock is alive with 
the red dawn while the other is still wrapped in night ; 
in the evening the scene changes: the side looking 
westward is flooded with the crimson of the dying 
sunlight, while the side turned to the east is shrouded 
in gloom. It always contrives to have the sun shine 
somewhere upon its old gray brow : it claims his first 
kiss in the morning, and at evening commands his last 
farewell caress. And when the condescending clouds 
come down upon the mountain, they fall first upon 
Sunset Rock. The gray mists hold it longest in their 
shroud-like embrace : it has a natural attraction that 
claims special notice. 

The tall, straight chestnut-oaks growing in the 
gorge below are continually waving a flag of truce with 
their green boughs and fluffy burrs to the threatening 
old rock frowning above them ; the pretty sourwood 


406 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

wears a gorgeous wealth of red and gold leaves about 
its base, long before the maple and poplar have 
dreamed of donning their autumn dress. The pale 
pink ivy blossoms bloom first for it; and the stately 
rhododendron lingers longest around the blutf which 
comes under the jurisdiction of Sunset Rock. 

The huckleberries grow largest down the gorge 
below ; but they ripen and dry upon the stem far out 
of reach of human hands. The great brown chest- 
nuts drop unpicked into the gorge. Human foot has 
not yet dared the wild ascent, nor broken the path to 
the low, echoless gorge. 

Nature around Sunset Rock designs beauty alone. 

To the right, around the eastern bend of the bluff, a 
low tinkle of falling water may be heard, and half-way 
down a tiny fall bursts from underneath the sandstone 
cliff, and falls into a natural basin tucked away among 
a screen of delicate ferns and flags. This bluff is 
always dark with the foliage, and shadows cast by the 
overhanging cliff. 

“ Now, Professor, let us hear the legend,” some one 
calls, as we group ourselves artistically among the 
flaming sumach and sourwood-bushes about the brow 
of .the rock. 

“ The what ?” asks Dennis Rhea, from a leafy covert 
beneath which he has ensconced himself with graceful 
ease. 

“ The legend, — have you never heard the ‘ Legend of 
Sunset Rock ’ ?” 

At this we all cry for the story. The demand is too 
general and sincere for refusal, so the easy little Pro- 
fessor takes a seat upon a lower ledge of the rock, and 
while we wait with breathless expectation, tells the 
story. 


THE LEGEND OF SUNSET ROCK. 407 

“ Tradition says,” the Professor begins, “ that the 
fairies or mountain sprites held their revels in the good 
old elf days upon this bluff, dancing in the moonlight 
upon the flat old rock. Indeed, some of the super- 
stitiously inclined declare the airy creatures still visit 
their old haunt; sometimes when the gray mists take 
fantastic shapes, they say ‘ the fairies are dancing on 
Sunset Rock.’ 

“ The little spring hidden in the fern-beds, below the 
right-hand bluff, was their special delight. 

“ ‘ Pairmount Falls’ they call it now, it was once called 
the ‘ Magic Fountain ;’ the rocks are bold and cruel 
about it, and the descending path is fringed with the 
most exquisite mosses and delicate pink, purple, and 
yellow blossoms. The rocks from which the water 
j)ours are quite bare, and, with a shelving top, from 
which a violet sheet of water begins what terminates 
in a mad, helter-skelter cataract that goes roaring 
down the mountain. The merry, musical tinkle you 
hear is not the noise of the cataract, — that is too distant 
for the sound to reach us, — but is the dropping of the 
water into the rock basin, half way down the bluff, 
which was the favored trys ting-place of the fairies, 
and the spring from which they always drank, if they 
drink, — and the legend says they did. 

“ It is said the queen of the fairies waved her wand 
over the water, and the lace-like ferns sprang up and 
grouped themselves about the basin and folded their 
graceful leaves protectingly over the little spring. 
And the legend runs that when first the sound of 
mortal foot fall was heard upon the mountain-side, the 
fairies held a council upon Sunset Rock, and laid a 
spell upon the spring : ‘ whoever should be first to 
drink of the water when the new moon rose behind 


408 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


the mountain should have the heart of the one he most 
loved.’ 

“ This was the charm. And then the fairies danced 
their last dance in the moonlight upon Sunset Eock, 
and left their old trysting-place forever. 

“ When they left, there was silence upon the Eock 
for a while ; only the soft eyes of the wild deer peeped 
into the silver water of the charmed spring, or the 
spotted fawns, weary with their gambols, stood panting 
and breathless under the drip of the ‘ Magic Fountain.’ 
Quiet crowned Sunset Eock, and peace, like a benedic- 
tion. 

“ But at last they came ; the steps the fairies had 
heard, — human voices calling in the resounding forests; 
human footsteps followed swift in the track of the wild 
deer and the roebuck. Down the mountain-side the 
flint arrow followed the flying fugitive from the summit 
of Sunset Eock; the red man watched with his eagle 
eye the windings of Elk Eiver through the far-away 
valley, and thought with grim scorn upon the white 
man’s world lying beyond the valley far to the sunny 
westward. 

‘‘ The Indian maiden clambered down the bluff in the 
early light of the moon, and, parting the flags above 
the little spring, would drink of the charmed water, 
then bound like a wild doe to the bluff above, bearing 
a wreath of. red berries and yellow blossoms to her 
favorite young brave. 

“ The verdure of many springs, the sun of many 
summers, the gold of many autumns, and the snow of 
many winters left their impress upon Sunset Eock. 
Many centuries passed, and the red man still tracked 
the wild deer, and the Indian maiden gathered red ber- 
ries and yellow blossoms around the enchanted spring. 


THE LEGEND OF SUNSET ROCK. 


409 


But at last the era ended. Another wind passing over 
the mountain carried strange premonitions in its breath. 

“ A soft foot-fall again trembled upon the mountain 
side ; then the quick ear of the savage heard the step 
growing bolder and more firm. 

“ The reign of freedom was at an end. The red men 
gathered in final conclave upon Sunset Eock, and the 
opposing bluff sent back the shrill, savage war-whoop. 
The war-dance sounded where the fairies’ light feet 
had fallen ; and the little spring below the cliff sobbed 
in the low, melancholy wail we still hear, when it found 
the sweet spell of the fairies lifted, and in its stead the 
curse of inconstancy laid upon the water. The moon 
hid her face, and has ever since refused to look upon 
the unhappy spring, sobbing its heart out under the 
ferns which drew closer about her in the endeavor to 
hide the poisoned water from the luckless passer-by. 
And then the red men vanished as the fairies had. 

“ The wild deer, too, heard the coming steps, the 
laughter and singing, and his fleet foot went ringing 
in the red man’s track down the mountain ; the black 
bear heard it, and crouched, with a sullen growl, into 
his den and died there ; the bold mountain eagle heard 
it, and with a shrill, scared cry spread his wings, swam 
a last time around the blue cloud-tops of his native 
land, and abandoned them forever. The red fox shrank 
still closer into his hole; the wolf and wild-cat howled 
a last despairing cry, and followed the yellow panther 
to a lair beyond the pace of civilization. 

“ Again there was silence around Sunset Eock, though 
the faint foot-falls were still creeping up the mountain- 
side, toiling up slowly, brokenly, but surely, until at 
last they gained the summit. 

New sounds stirred the forests and woke the echoes, 
35 


s 


410 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


— sounds never before heard by the grim old rock ; 
the shriek of the engine rang a mad jubilee as the 
height was gained ; the locomotive thundered a roar 
of defiance to gulch, gorge, and summit; the whistle 
sounded the good news, the listening winds caught 
it and bore it, in telegraphic eagerness, to the tireless 
stars which clapped their hands and sang together, 
that at last Civilization had climbed the mountain. 
Where the war-dance rang, and the fairy waltzers 
swayed in the moonlight, new forms were flitting, 
and sweet voices singing songs to the listening stars. 

“ Strains so moving that the night-wind waits to 
catch the echo, and the moon swings low over the 
gorge in a milk-white cloud-chariot, and, pausing over 
Sunset Eock, listens to the plaintive melody. The 
singers gather at sunset upon the old gray rock to 
watch the day dying in the west ; they gather the 
blood-red berries and nodding golden-rod into wreaths 
for their fair temples. And then, when the sun sets 
and the shadows begin to creep along the gorge, the 
moon swings round the brow of the mountain and 
lights them home through the deep, echoless wood.” 

The Professor ceases, and for a moment the silence is 
unbroken ; then Blanche speaks : 

“ That is a pretty legend, a very pretty legend ; and 
you have told it welL” 

She rises, shakes the bits of purple blossoms and 
crimson dogwood-leaves from her lap, and, stepping 
upon a narrow ledge above, lays the wreath she has 
been twining, upon the narrator’s head. 

We all clap our hands and shout our approbation. 
The young man blushes at the unlooked-for compli- 
ment. 

When the noise subsides, Lincoln says, — 


THE LEGEND OF SUNSET ROCK. 


411 


“ It is not an unselfish gift, Blanche ; you could not 
wear your pretty wreath yourself ; your auburn braids 
would not permit so cruel a contrast.” 

She does not heed the jest ; she knows the threads 
of gold flout the base idea of red. She turns her face 
to the west, where the sun still sails — grandly indif- 
ferent to our impatience — far above the horizon. 

“ That is a most ungallant sun,” she says. “ Why, 
he is creeping as soberly and prosaically along the 
heavens as if we were not impatiently waiting his 
majesty’s departure. His leave-taking suggests the 
going of an unwelcome lover.” 

“ Contradictory- terms,” says Dennis Ehea, from his 
covert among the sumach-bushes. 

She turns her calm eyes a moment toward him, then 
back to the warm, crimson west. 

“ Lovers cannot be unwelcome,” he continues. 

She does not so much as look toward him now, as 
she answers, indifferently, — 

“Perhaps so.” 

He bites his lip at the girl’s ungraciousness, and she 
turns to Eobert. “ Mr. Courtney, I am not a patient 
waiter, and the sun is provokingly slow. I am going 
for a drink from the enchanted spring, of which the 
Professor has been telling us.” 

“ Why, the curse is still on the spring; it has never 
been lifted,” we exclaim in a breath; but she laughs 
and gathers up her skirts, beckoning Eobert to come 
with her. 

“ I am not afraid of evil spells,” she says. 

The shadows are creeping stealthily up from the al- 
ready gloomy gorge; the distant mountains are grow- 
ing purple and dark when the two forms disappear in 
the thick growth along the sides of the bluff. 


412 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

The sun creeps steadily on to his setting, and at last 
drops below the horizon, drawing his crimson drapery 
after him. The watchers rise to go, and yet the other 
two do not come. We halloo and shout to them, but 
there is no answer. 

Alarmed for them, I spring down among the ivy- 
bushes and follow their path. 

Down, down over the rough stones and slippery 
moss; down from the warm sunset into the dreary 
gloom ; down, until I hear the pitiful sob of the water- 
fall; down lower, until I catch the shimmer of a white 
dress against the dark background of shadowy laurel. 

The gloom falls faster and more fast ; the wind stirs 
and rustles the laurel-leaves. A cloud drifts from the 
eastern horizon, showing the sad face of the new moon. 
The two figures take no notice of me : one is pleading 
earnestly, the other is softly weeping. I pause a mo- 
ment : full of an undying passion, the words float to me. 

“Blanche! Blanche! I love you!” 

And with a cold fear at my heart I turn back to 
meet the steps coming toward me. 

“ Come away ; leave them alone,” I whisper. 

Without a question, Lincoln takes my arm and leads 
me up the dark bluff ; and silently we follow the home- 
ward path made shadowy with the branches of the 
trees interlacing above our heads. 

Dear Bob, dear old brother, the heart has spoken at 
last ; and I wonder — to what purpose. 

Alas ! heartache is the heritage of humanity. 


TO FOREST POINT. 


413 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

TO FOREST POINT. 

** De Leon ! De Leon ! if more thou wouldst know, 

Awake thee from slumber and with me come go, 

Ere starlight hath faded, ere moonbeams may pale. 

O'er mountain and forest, o’er valley and vale.” 

We are doing a very unwise thing visiting Forest 
Point in daylight,” says the Professor from the depth 
of the great excursion-wagon, where he is being tucked 
away among more than a dozen young girls. 

The Professor is our guide on almost every excur- 
sion : he is good-natured, well posted, and no one in 
the mountains can tell a story better than the little 
school- master. 

“ Why ? Is it another Melrose ?” asks Dennis Ehea, 
‘‘that to be viewed aright must be seen by moon- 
light?” 

“Exactly so,” declares the Professor; “and it is a 
most picturesque sight, I can tell you. Forest Point 
is unlike the other views we have visited ; there is a 
lack of the wildness we usually find in these mountain 
bluffs. It has more of a dreamy, romantic air, — a most 
appropriate place for love-making. Indeed, some of 
the knowing ones declare the blind god has his abode 
among the groves that crown the Point.” 

“Oh,” exclaims an enthusiastic young lady, “per- 
haps we shall see him.” 

“My dear young friend,” exclaims Lincoln, “you 
must know that the mischief-making Cupid is invisible; 
bb 35* 


414 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

and it might be well to consider the fate of the curious 
young lady who was mad enough to steal a glimpse of 
the selfish little god. Take the lesson home before it 
is too late. When we seek to comprehend, analyze 
love, it spreads its wings and leaves. Professor, have 
you ever seen the Point by moonlight ?” 

Oh, yes,” he replies, “ I have seen every imagina- 
ble moon ever recorded by poet or philosopher rise 
here; I have seen Jean Ingelow’s 

‘ Yellow moon in splendor drooping, 

A tired queen, with her state oppressed,’ 

languidly floating, in an amber haze, over the sleeping 
valley. I have seen Longfellow’s 

‘ Calm and magical moonlight 
. . . Behind the hlack wall of the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver.’ 

And then I have seen D’Israeli’s moon poised upon the 
summit of Old Olivet, withdrawing her light from the 
tomb of Absalom and the Garden of Gethsemane, the 
waters of Kedron, and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat, 
gilding the temple built by the Ishmaelite and peering 
through cypress and cedar into the pool of Bethesda. 
Then I have seen a frisky little half-moon lighting Tam 
O’Shanter home in the ‘ wee sma’ hours ayant the twa,’ 
and I have seen ” 

“ Oh, hush I we are already moonstruck !” cries Den- 
nis Ehea. “We are fullj^ persuaded the moon rises a 
dozen times each night at Forest Point, and that we 
committed a serious blunder in not postponing our 
trij) until one of them, at least, shall make her appear- 
ance.” 


TO FOREST POINT. 


415 


“ I am not so sure,” says the Professor. “ There is 
one serious drawback to these moonlight excursions.” 

“ What is that?” we all cry in a breath ; and he re- 
plies, — 

“ You see we sometimes lose our girl in the uncertain 
light, and some other fellows get her.” 

“ Oh !” and Dennis Ehea looks at Blanche, who, bus- 
ily engaged with entertaining her own. escort, has not 
once looked at him as he sits beside a gay young widow, 
sometimes bending his handsome head until the dark 
waves upon his temples touch the tip of the white 
plume in her bonnet. I find myself wondering if 
Blanche loves him. She is proud and distant when in 
his presence, and to-day she has not been herself. She 
has scarcely spoken to me at all, and twice I found her 
sitting alone in her room, and once I saw a tear drop on 
the hands folded in her lap. And Bob has left us. I 
found a note on my plate at breakfast, saying he had 
gone with Major Crawford to Lookout Mountain, and 
bidding me, should he not return, to remain with the 
Crawfords until he shall write me. That is a queer 
proceeding for Bob ; something is wrong, and Dennis 
Ehea is the cause of it. These things pass hurriedly 
through my mind, and in the midst of my meditation 
Lincoln touches my arm. 

“ Are you dreaming ? I have spoken to you three 
times and you have not heard.” 

“ I beg your pardon. I believe I was, as you say, 
dreaming. What is it you wish ?” 

‘‘I asked you how you liked Dennis Ehea,” he says. 

“ I hate him,” is my answer. 

“ I supposed so from the manner in which you were 
glowering at him under your long lashes. He is ‘ awfully 
sweet’ on the widow ; see how he smiles and ‘ looks love’ 


416 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

into her eyes. I wonder if she knows she is lifting her 
lids a trifle too high, and showing too much of the 
whites of her eyes, as well as running the risk of a 
wrinkle on her forehead. Oh, these widows. Dickens 
was right, ‘ Beware of the vidders.’ ” 

We hurry on through the lonely mountain groves: 
the loveliest drive we have had ; certainly the most 
smooth and comfortable road ; the trees interlacing 
above us form a leafy archway that is deliciously cool 
and beautiful. But somehow the trip is not altogether 
as happy as former excursions, I think, as I turn sud- 
denly to Lincoln, — 

“ Say I” 

“ Say first yourself,” he replies ; “ you are the 
lady.” 

“ Ladies usually prefer the ‘ last say,’ do they not ?” 
I ask, smiling. 

“ No ; women like the ‘ closing speech.’ You should 
make a distinction between ‘ lady’ and ‘ woman.’ But 
what is it you were about to say?” 

“Yes, I was about to remark that something is 
wrong.” 

“ Certainly,” he replies. “ Shall I tell you what it 
is?” 

“ Indeed, I should be grateful. I feel oppressed with 
something, I cannot imagine what. When one knows 
where the trouble is, then one can meet it. A grief 
understood is a grief half cured.” 

“Well, I will tell you.” He folds his arms upon his 
breast and looks solemnly into my face. “ There is 
something unusual to pay; you yourself will be sur. 
prised when I remind you of it. I have carefully con- 
sidered and sifted the cause for the sudden change in 
the state of our affairs, and my conclusion is that the 


TO FOREST POINT. 


417 


change is due to the fact that we have not quarrelled 
for a week, — seven good — long — days.” 

“What a goose you are!” I retort, as he sits coolly 
enjoying my disappointment. 

“ It is gospel truth,” he declares. “ And I am at a 
loss how to account for it.” 

“ Well, I will do the enlightening this time,” I reply. 
“ If I have not quarrelled any of late, it is because I 
forgot your existence in more important matters.” 

“ Thanks j as our little Queen of Diamonds would 
say, ‘ thanks awfully your candor again calls for ” 

“ Pardon me. Miss Courtney, you are losing a most 
magnificent view,” says a voice on my right. 

“ Thank you. Professor ; I had no idea we were 
nearing the Point,” I reply. 

“ Pleasant surroundings often help us to forget a 
dull way,” he answers, with a smile. We turn to ad- 
mire the exquisite picture spread before us. The road 
we are travelling lies along the brink of a precipice, the 
limit of the plateau upon which we are driving. Be- 
fore we have sufficient time to recover from our first 
impression of surprise and delight as the blue sea of 
vagueness opens before us, the driver pulls up on a 
bold, flat, open space, and we dismount at Forest 
Point, the dreamiest and most perfectly-finished view 
of the Cumberland Plateau. Before giving our atten- 
tion to the distant view, the dreamy, drifting silver 
bolt that floats in still a dreamier azure, we examine 
the gorgeous beauty of the jutting eminence upon 
which we stand, — a world, a magnificent throne of ver- 
dure, — trees brushing their plumy tops against the blue 
sky, bold rocks half hidden in a mass of clinging 
lichens and pale moss, the dropping vines waving far 
below the jagged and uneven juttings seem a green 
bh 


418 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 

frino-e studded with bright red berries for beads. Be- 
tween the fissures of the bluff the delicate maiden- 
hair ferns are nodding, and a fragile wild-flower 
creeps for shelter far back beneath the overhanging 
ledges. Tall trees — now mere pigmies — rustle below 
us, between the clefted rocks. Above the highest 
bluff, the hawthorn and wild hazel cluster, and the 
sumach flaunts its crimsoning crest like danger-signals 
hoisted upon the cliffs to warn the ships at sea. 

Below us nestles the peaceful valley, with its green 
pastures and flourishing vineyards, and the little cot- 
tages here and there, sitting like “ragged beggars 
sunning” in the broad, warm centre of the sunshiny 
valley, while others nestle like birds’ nests under 
the protecting wing of the mountain. Low knobs 
rise in the distance, flanked by a higher range, and 
still a higher, until the last is but a blue line of moun- 
tains, half hidden in the clouds. But best of all is the 
stillness that pervades the valley ; not a twig, not the 
rustle of a leaf breaks the exquisite silence. Eomantic 
indeed. The Professor is right ; it might be the abode 
of Eros, for its fitness. 

The sun goes slowly toward the western horizon ; 
it will be full an hour before he travels across the in- 
tervening space above the drowsy valley. 

After exclaiming upon the wondrous beauty of the 
scene, we separate. Down one side of the bluff a 
natural terrace leads almost to the very foot of the 
mountain. I see Blanche slowly descending the stone 
steps with Lincoln ; the clinging shrubbery closes be- 
hind them, and I turn to find another nook down the 
shaded bluff in which to enjoy the stillness. One un- 
consciously falls to dreaming in the lonely mountain 
nooks, happy if the dream takes its coloring from the 


TO FOREST POINT. 


419 


surrounding loveliness. Almost every one chooses to 
be alone at Forest Point. Solitude is, after all, the 
only real way to enjoy nature. 

“ How restful, and sweet, and good it is !” I exclaim, 
as I watch the fitful shadows — the sun on his slow 
march— and the blue sky with its gate of gold ere 
long to open in the west. 

While musing, the hum of voices above me grows 
more indistinct. Some one drops a pebble from the 
ledge above, and it falls with a ringing sound upon 
the rock at my feet, bounds, and drops into the fern- 
beds below the bluff. I look up and see Lincoln 
Crawford peeping over the rock. 

“ May I come down ?” he calls. I nod assent, and 
there is a parting of the bushes above, a rattle of 
dislodged stones, and he swings by a young sapling 
over the last intervening ledge. 

“ Here I am, at your service,” he cries, brushing the 
dust from his sleeves and taking a seat on the rock 
at my side. “ You have scarcely spoken to me for a 
week,” he exclaims; “ what is the matter?” 

“ I told you once I forgot you,” I reply, and then 
thoughtlessly change the subject. “It is growing 
chilly.” 

“ Yes, I think it is, very chilly,” he replies ; “ so chilly 
that I shall be forced to seek a more congenial atmos- 
phere. Grood-evening. Auf wieder schen, as la belle 
Christine would say.” 

With that he lifts his hat and leaves me, and I am 
angry without knowing why. I sit for a half-hour 
watching the growing darkness in the valley. A purple 
cloud with a dead-white fringe floats across the sun and 
hovers like a broken-winged bird over the distant 
peaks ; then some one calls, and I go to join the 


420 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

others upon the Point to see the sun round the last 
point in the day’s journey and enter the Golden Gate. 

“ Is it not gorgeous ?” cries the enthusiastic Professor. 
“See where those great clouds have parted like two 
pillars to allow the Monarch to pass through ; and the 
amber light beyond them is truly magnificent. Yonder 
is Moscow in flames. See how the serpents of fire are 
clambering and writhing about the domes of palace and 
temple. Above that sea of blood in the rear rises a 
black smoke ; it is the most gorgeous sunset to be seen 
this side the skies of old Italy.” 

While the Professor is pointing out the panoramic 
changes, I peep over the precipice and see Blanche 
half-way down the steep. The light falls full upon her 
face, which is turned westward, while she watches the 
changeful heavens. She is alone : she likes to be alone 
on these excursions. I begin to wonder where Lincoln 
can be, when from above a man’s voice sings, — 

“ Maid of Athens, ere we part, 

Give, oh, give me hack my heart ; 

Or, since that has left my breast, 

Keep it now and take the rest I 
Hear my vow before I go, — 

My life, my soul, I love you.” 

He is singing Byron’s passionate love-song to the 
young girl who wished to see Cupid. Unnoticed I go 
down the bluff, the words of the song floating in my 
ears, — 

“ My life, my soul, I love you,” — 

and stand at Blanche’s side. 

“ Blanche,” I call, “ come up to us j it is dull down 
here.” 


TO FOREST POINT. 


421 


No, it is charming,” she replies; and I leave her. 

“ By those tresses unconfined, 

Tossed by each ^gean wind ; 

By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheek’s blooming tinge, — 

Hear my vow before I go.” 

The song still sounds from the rustling laurel-bushes. 

The Professor is still acting as spokesman for the 
scenic display. 

“ The clouds have shifted and Moscow has vanished. 
Jerusalem has been thrown upon the canvas. See how 
the proud palaces are ablaze with light, and away to 
the left the palm-trees grouped about the healing pools 
are dark with evening.” 

“ Is that blue cloud of mountains the Mount of Olives, 
Professor?” some one asks. 

“ Yes,” he replies, “ we will call it so ; how gloomy 
it looks behind the blood-red and amber glow falling 
upon Jerusalem!” 

The darkness is spreading, the valley is dusky, and a 
filmy haze is settling upon it. The tops of the opposing 
mountains are gray with the twilight ; the winds rus- 
tle the trees on Forest Point; a cow-bell tinkles in the 
dark valley. 

Lincoln finishes his song, — 

“ Maid of Athens, I am gone. 

Think of me. Sweet, when alone ; 

Though I fly to Istamboul, 

Athens holds my heart and soul.” 

Jerusalem fades; only an amber haze, a blood-red 
ball of fire set in a dead-blue framework, remains of 
the gorgeous pictures. 


422 the SVNNY side of the CUMBERLAND. 


The amber grows fainter, the blue changes to dullest 
purple. 

The fire-ball glares half hidden by the darkening 
summits ; the wind stirs the laurel, the red ball drops 
behind the mountain, the valley fades, — it is evening. 

:}{******* 

“ Blanche, please tell Mrs. Crawford I do not wish 
any supper: I have a headache; and don’t allow scny 
one to disturb me, please.” 

And when she is gone I throw myself upon the bed 
and burst into tears. Bob is gone, Blanche has the 
blues, and I am miserable. Even Lincoln Crawford 
can find nothing better to do than sing songs to a hor- 
rid Alabama girl with red hair and white eyelashes. 

It is dreadfully lonely. I have asked not to be dis- 
turbed, and the injunction is being faithfully obeyed. 

After an hour of fretting I get up, turn the lamp, 
throw on a dark wrapper, open a book, and prepare to 
entertain myself. 

‘‘ Cricket on the Hearth.” I open the book to find, 
pressed between the leaves, the bunch of purple wild- 
flowers Bob wore yesterday on the lapel of his coat, — 
pressed until their dark-red blood has almost elfaced 
the heart-breaking words of poor John Perrybingle, — 

“ Ho hand can make the clock which will strike again 
for me the hours that are gone.” 

“The hours that are gone.” Poor Bob ! poor brother! 
Lincoln was right when he said, “ People enjoy them- 
selves until they fall in love.” Poor Bob I 

“ My life, my soul, I love you.” 

Lincoln’s song rings through my ears, until I place 
my hands over them to shut out the hateful sound. 


TO FOREST POINT. 


423 


The house seems like a tomb. I open the door, and 
stepping out upon the vine-covered balcony, throw my- 
self in a large rustic chair and give myself to enjoy 
the night. 

The sound of singing breaks at length upon the air ; 
the waiters from the dining-room are congregated about 
the large hotel swing, and, while one occupies the 
swing, the others keep it in motion, singing all the 
time as the rope swa^^s back and forth in tune with 
the music : . 

“ Oh, the chariot’s a-coming, don’t you hear it? 

Oh, the chariot’s a-coming, don’t you hear it? 

Yes, the chariot’s a-coming, — I can hear it, • 

And I don’t want to be left behind. 

“ Don’t you hear it, brother, don’t you hear, hear, hear, — 
Don’t you hear it a-rolling through the air ? 

Don’t you hear it, brother, don’t you hear, hear, hear, — 
Don’t you hear it a-rolling through the air?” 

When the song ceases there are voices on the other 
side of the leafy screen, and, supposing it only others 
who are listening to the music, I crouch farther out of 
sight, until I hear Blanche’s voice, and she is talking 
to Dennis Bhea, of Eobert. I do not catch her words 
at first, but I hear Mr. Ehea say, — 

“ You love Mr. Courtney?” and her rejfiy comes dis- 
tinctly to me, — 

“ That cannot be of any possible interest to you. I 
am satisfied I do not care for you.” 

For a moment there is silence ; then he says, — 

“ You loved me once, Blanche.” 

“ I think not,” is the reply ; “ because if it were so 
I should care for you still. Love does not die.” And 
then they pass on through the patch of moonlight lying 


424 the sunny side OF THE CUMBERDAND. 


across the path, and the beeches receive them into 
their shadow. 

I rise to go in, when a step sounds upon the balcony, 
and Lincoln confronts me with a surprised start. 

“ Ah !” he says, “ I beg pardon ; I supposed you were 
ill. Don’t let me disturb you.” And he turns to leave. 

“ I am going in,” I reply. “ You need not leave on 
my account.” 

He hesitates a moment, then says, — 

“ Stay and talk to me awhile ?” 

I shake my head. 

“ Do !” he insists ; “ I have a secret to tell you.” 

“ You are testing my curiosity,” I reply ; and after 
all it proves too much for me, and I stay. 


CHAPTER XL. 

LONG AGO. 

“ Live well — how long or short, permit to heaven.” 

“ People live to a wonderful age in the mountains,” 
says Blanche. 

“Wait until you have seen this couple, and you will 
think so indeed,” says the Professor, who has volun- 
teered to show us “an example of long life in the 
mountains.” 

Lincoln, Blanche, the Professor, and I : it would not 
do to take too large a crowd. We have chosen one of 
those lazy Sabbath afternoons when every one is too 
indolent for a walk, so that we need have felt no un- 
easiness regarding too much company. 

Two miles of patient tramping, and we are called to 


LONG AGO. 


425 


a halt in the midst of a large field that, for want 
of attention, has become only a wild brier-patch. 

A long, low fence divides the field, and seeing no 
gate the Professor begins to lower the bars. We all 
cry out against the unnecessary politeness. Wo have 
climbed too many mountains to stop for a poor little 
fence. Over we go, before the Professor has fairly time 
to understand that we are in earnest, and land in a 
worse brier-patch on the other side ; through this we 
beat our way to the tall picket fence which shuts in 
the little hovel and yard of Uncle Billy and Aunt Sally, 
the old couple who have spent fifty years in the hut on 
the mountains. 

Is every woman in the mountains named Aunt Sally 
and every man Uncle Billy ?” asks Lincoln, and the 
Professor answers, 

“ They are certainly favorite names. Every house 
has its old couple, and they are usually Aunt Sally and 
Uncle Billy.” 

A great black dog meets us at the gate. We do not 
know the brute is too old to bite, so we wait for the 
rail that is aimed at the dog, and watch for the owner 
of the cracked voice which calls to us, — 

“Come along; come in. He can’t bite, the nasty 
thing.” 

We open the gate, as the dog, warned by the fence- 
rail, seeks other quarters, and, — 

“ O Hecate !” says Lincoln, in a whisper. 

“ ‘ By the pricking of my thumbs. 

Something wicked this way comes.’ ” 

Is it one of the Shakespearean witches indeed, or only 
one of the Mother Goose pictures stepped from the red 
and yellow pages, — ^this little old woman coming toward 
36 * 


426 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

US ? She has decidedly the appearance of the former 
as she brandishes her long pole. Upon closer inspec- 
tion, however, we are persuaded it is the object of the 
youthful outburst, — 

“ Old woman ! old woman 1 whither so high ?” 

“ To brush the cobwebs out of the sky.” 

Her costume, however, is not an airy one, to say the 
least of it, in that it consists of a short, blue calico frock, 
a large apron, an old calico bonnet, and a large, cotton 
square pinned across the chest, exposing the thin, bony 
neck around which is hung a string of yellow wire. 
Her dress is short, her leather shoes large, and the 
small, shrunken ankles set in the open shoe-tops give 
her a weird, ungainly appearance when she walks. 

Close in her wake follows Uncle Billy. If both wore 
dresses, it would be difficult to distinguish one from 
the other ; as it is. Uncle Billy’s short, ragged pants, 
reaching mid-way between knee and ankle, proclaim 
him master of the manse. 

“ Come in,” they both cry, as both brandish their 
sticks. “ Come in ef you can get in for the dirt and 
nastiness.” 

We do get there, and find seats under the low, rot- 
ten shed of a porch that has sheltered the old couple 
for fifty years. 

“ Fifty years an’ better,” says Aunt Sally, drawing 
her chair close to ours ; while Uncle Billy, poor little 
silver-haired, age-broken Uncle Billy, takes a seat in a 
low chair at the corner of the cabin, and, tilting the 
chair against the wall, gives himself to our entertain- 
ment as freely and friendly as if visitors dropped in 
every day. 


LONG AGO. 


427 


Both are very deaf, and both are fond of talking. 
All they ask is that we listen. 

“ How old are you ?” says Blanche. 

“ Forgot long ago,” Aunt Sally replies. The old 
man’s gone a hund’ed, but it makes him madder’n Sa- 
tan to say it. He don’t know nothin’, Billy don’t ; he’s 
done forgot long ago.” 

The Professor turns to Uncle Billy : 

“ How old are you. Uncle Billy?” 

“ I be ninety-eight, an’ I be n’t a day ol’er,” he re- 
plies. “ The ole gal ’lows I be better’n a hund’ed, but 
it’s a lie. I ain’t ole. 1 goes to town whin I has a call 
to go, an’ thar ain’t none as can bender. The ole gal 
don’t know nothin’ ; she’s furgot long ago : but I ain’t 
ole.” 

“ Onc’t a man, t’wic’t a chile,” croaks the old 
woman, who has not heard a word the old man has 
been saying. “ He’s deaf — deafer’n a post ; an’ he runs 
off to town wh^in he hain’t no call to go thar. Folkses 
looks over his doings, an’ his rags, too. I can’t keep 
him a-decent; I can’t holp his goings on, I can’t.” 

“ My mother wus a hund’ed an’ twenty year when 
she died,” declares the old man ; “ a hund’ed an’ 
twenty, an’ I wus sixty year whin we-uns left the Big 
Smokey, better’n forty year ago. I wus a young chap 
then ” 

But the old woman is talking too, and I turn to 
listen : 

“ Thirteen chillen, thirteen in the groun’. All in 
the groun’, but me an’ Billy ” 

“ Hoes yer know the song ?” Uncle Billy is asking. 

‘ We’re marchin’, 

We’re marchin’ on ; 

I’ll meet ye at the judgmint.’ 


428 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


Waal I ’lows that’s so, mebbe ; I don’t sing it, — I jest 
thinks it. 


‘ Marchin’ — I’ll meet ye at the judgmint.’ ” 

“ Where did you hear it ?” asks the Professor. 

“ Back” — he indicates with his head, but the head 
laid back against the wall of the cabin is not lifted 
again ; the old eyes are closed, and Uncle Billy is 
asleep. 

“ It’s mighty nice,” Aunt Sally is saying, — “ mighty 
nice while ye’re young an’ kin git about. Folkes 
thinks a power o’ ye thin ; but wait — jest you wait 
tell you gets ole, an’ yer chillen air undergroun’, an’ 
the weeds in yer door, an’ yer frien’s furgits ye, an’ 
ye jest live an’ don’t live.” 

Ah! we caught the thought, — “Ye jest live an’ 
don’t live.” 

“ It’s bad,” she continues, — “ bad — mighty bad to be 
ole — mighty bad.” 

She leans one hand upon the long rude crutch, 
while one holds fast the chair, and says, — 

“ It air bad to be forgot — mighty bad.” 

So it is ; Aunt Sally has not lived her fivescore 
years without learning at least one lesson. Who shall 
say it is not life’s hardest ? 

“ And I am lonesome, and the nights are few 
That any think to come and draw a chair, 

And sit in my poor place and talk awhile. 

Why should they come, forsooth ? Only the wind 
Knocks at my door : 

The only thing God made that has a mind 
To enter in.” 


AFTER STORMS. 


429 


CHAPTEK XLL 

AFTER STORMS. 

“ The sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunders, — 

In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest.” 

« Did I think 

That such a passionate rain would intercept 
And dash this last page.” 

“ This love just puts its hand out in a dream. 

And straight outreaches all things.” 

There comes an afternoon when we begin to con- 
template a homeward turning ; not seriously yet, not 
one of us will really argue that ’tis time to go, — we 
are all so loath to leave the mountains. Only a hint, 
a half-suggestion dropped timidly and reluctantly now 
and then, reminds us that the summer is ended. The 
leaves of the grand old forests are touched with ten 
thousand colors. Blood-red, yellow, and pale pink, 
delicate green and russet-brown, or spotted like the 
curse of leprosy had smitten. 

“Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy. 

Dead fruits of the fugitive years — 

Some stained as with wine, and made bloody. 

And some as with tears.” 

The sumach gleams like a fire-brand in the desolated 
forests: the golden-rod shivers and trembles, and bows 
its yellow plume whenever the wind stirs; and the 
chestnut-burrs are bursting and the rich, brown nuts 
dropping, dropping to the crimson-carpeted earth. The 


430 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

muskadines hang their luscious, purple balls to catch 
the full perfecting light, and sometimes, where the 
thick, blue skin has bursted through full maturity, 
the amber fruit hangs wasting in the sunlight. The 
paw-paw and persimmon impatiently await the tardy 
frosts to perfect them. Autumn in its splendor is upon us. 

While I sit meditating and regretting the close of 
our happy season, Blanche comes to me, lays her arm 
about my neck, and says, — 

“Come with me, Nell. I have something to tell you.” 

And together we steal off down the shaded walks 
that were lately thronged with visitors. 

Beaching a rustic bench hidden among the yellow 
ferns, she draws me to her side, and there among the 
quiet groves she tells me the secret I have known all 
summer. She has promised to be Bob’s wife, — my 
sister ; and then she lays an open letter in my hand. 
I read it, while she watches me ; read my brother’s 
love for her, my friend, my best and worthiest friend. 
I love her, and I am not sorry she is to be my sister. 
I have told myself I should be glad to hear it when 
it came, this story, for I knew it must come. But 
somehow, when I read the words, the rapturous, heart- 
spoken words, and know the lips that have spoken 
no other love except for me are breathing passion for 
another, — ah 1 that is different. “ Things seen are 
mightier than things spoken.” 

I lay the letter in her hand, and, stooping, leave a 
kiss upon the finger-tips that close about the fiuttering 
sheet. A kiss and a tear. 

“ Nell,” she says, “ you are not sorry I am to be 
your sister ?” 

And I answer, — 

“ No ; I am glad, very glad.” And then a whistle 


AFTER STORMS. 


431 


from an engine echoes through the grove, as the even- 
ing train comes toiling up the mountain, and with it Bob. 

We wait for him under the half-naked, autumn trees, 
and soon his happy, impatient step sounds with a ring 
upon the walk, and soon we see him coming. He sees 
us also, stops, and opens his arms. Blanche goes down 
to meet him, and I am forgotten. 

I turn from their happiness, and, crossing through 
the grove, seek the friendly shelter of the denser wood 
beyond, where I can be alone. 

I throw myself upon the grass and think. I have 
lost him, — Bob. I am no more first and all in my 
brother’s heart ; but he has given almost twenty years 
to me, and, after all, he is giving me a sister, I reason, 
and strive to be just, even if I cannot be generous; 
and just when I persuade myself that I am glad and 
would not have it otherwise, the bare, hard fact that I 
have lost him confronts me again, and I drop my face 
in my hands and burst into tears. 

And while I sit there weeping, some one parts the 
bushes, and Lincoln Crawford stands before me. 

“ Just as I expected,” he cries, “ having a good time 
all by yourself ; you women are selfish creatures.” 

And I answer through my tears, — 

If you — you — ca-ca-call this a good ti-time you are 
welcome to it.” ' 

And he laughs, and holds out his hand. 

“Come, don’t be a baby,” he says; “get up. There’s 
no good in crying for one’s own brother when there are 
scores and scores of other folks’ brothers waiting to be 
claimed.” 

“ But they are not Bob,” I reply. 

“Ho, thank Heaven!” he exclaims. “Would you 
Bob the universe ?” 


432 the SUNNV side of the CUMBERLAND. 

And then I laugh, and agree to his proposition to 
“ down my grief in a ride over the mountain,” in defi- 
ance of the cloud that has been rising for half an hour. 

* ^ :|« * * 5K * 

Which way ?” I ask, when we are in the saddle. 

“ To ‘ Sweet Fern Cave ?’ ” he asks. 

“I have been there,” is my answer, and moreover, 
it is too rough for riding. 

“ How about ‘ Saltpetre Cave ?’ ” he asks ; “ you cer- 
tainly like that.” 

I slowly shake my head. 

“ Too far ; besides, I have seen it ; the ‘ Whispering 
Gallery,’ ‘ Christmas Chamber,’ ‘ Sicilian Grotto,’ ‘ Dead 
Man’s Bones,’ ‘Albemarle Avenue,’ the saltpetre vats 
left by the Confederates when surprised and taken by 
the Federals while extracting saltpetre for the army, — 
all; I have seen it all: try again.” 

“Down ‘Bragg’s Eoad,’ ” he answers. “We have 
never been that route ; and your patriotism may be 
aroused in travelling the road travelled by the old Con- 
federate general when marching over the mountain, to 
the extent you will forget your private griefs.” 

“ And how about yourself?” I ask. 

“ Oh,” he replies, “ those who win can always afford 
to be generous. Miss Courtney ?” 

“ Well ?” 

“Do you suppose you — meaning the South — will 
ever outgrow your prejudice for the North ?” he asks; 
and I answer, — 

“Never. It is founded upon injustice. Human 
nature forgives everything sooner than that.” 

“ But,” he continues, “ the South to-day is as loyal 
to the Union as the North.” 

“ Agreed,” I reply. “ She has always been : it was 


AFTER STORMS. 


433 


not the Union she would have overthrown, it was In- 
justice; and all the preaching since Adam cannot 
deaden the sting that attaches to injustice.” 

Then he laughs, and says, — 

“You were not born until after the war; how is it 
you are such a bold warrior ? Where did you get 
your knowledge of battles ?” 

“ Picked it up,” I reply ; and he says, — 

“ One Yankee trait, at least.” And we both laugh 
as we go stumbling over the rocky mountain road, — 
good friends again. 

“ Miss Courtney ?” 

I turn, suddenly drawing in my horse. Ho follows 
my example, and we sit looking each other a moment 
full in the eye, and I exclaim, — 

“ When will you leave off the tiresome ‘ Miss Court- 
ney’ ?” 

His face flushes as he answers, — 

“It was by your command that I adopted it; it 
must bo by your command that I drop it.” 

“ Then I command,” I exclaim, as I extend my hand. 

He takes it, presses it a moment, and drops it ; and 
we ride on through the lonely mountain. 

The road opens a descent into the valley ; half-way 
down we pause a moment to look around and above us, 
— below, upon our right, there is a steep decline ; a 
wilderness covered with thick, rank, brown growth. 
Above us, to the left, the trees are standing motion- 
less upon the high bluff; the air is sultry and close, 
and the sky has a brazen cast. The wind creeps 
near the ground and rustles among the low, leafless 
bushes. 

“ Ho you know,” says Lincoln, “ I believe we shall 
have a storm ?” 

T cc 37 


434 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

“ And do you know,” I reply, “ that I believe you 
are a false prophet ? It is a hot, dry, sultry August 
afternoon ; that is all.” 

“ Ho,” he insists, “ there will certainly be a storm ; 
this heavy, oppressive stillness means something in the 
mountains. Eemember Devil’s Creek, and let us turn 
back.” 

“ I am sure the adventure on Devil’s Creek was a 
success,” I reply ; “ let us go on.” 

For half an hour we ride on, carelessly chatting, and 
enjoying the autumn richness abroad in the mountains. 
Suddenly Lincoln lays his hand on my bridle. 

“ Listen a low, sullen rumble reaches my ears, and 
at the same moment a flash of zigzag lightning darts 
across the sky, and my horse plunges and rears and 
threatens to unseat me. 

The wind suddenly rises from the covert of bushes 
like a hidden fury, and springs into the trees, and 
swinging among the branches, beats and lashes and 
tosses them, and bends them to the earth ; or wrapping 
itself around the tall, straight timbers, writhes and clam- 
bers among, and wrenches them with a crash from 
their hold. 

The thunder rolls nearer ; the sullen rumble grows 
to a mad roar, and the lightnings flash their forked 
tongues across the brazen, yellow sky until we are 
blind with the mingled gloom and brightness. 

We turn our horses’ heads homeward, to be met with 
a wild, deafening crash as a tree is hurled from the 
blulf above, and the frightened animals plant their 
forefeet upon the ground and refuse to stir. 

Again there is a roar of thunder and a flash of 
lightning, followed by a crash, and the horse I am 
riding plunges, stands upon his hind feet, and, as I leap 


AFTER STORMS. 


435 


to the ground, goes flying homeward through the 
storm, his hoof-beats sounding as he hurries over the 
rocky mountain pass. 

Quickly Lincoln springs to the ground, saying, — 

“ They will be frightened to death when the horse 
comes home riderless. If both go, they will suppose 
we have stopped and the animals have broken loose.” 

He draws the blade of his knife, cuts half through 
his own bridle, then with all his strength brought to 
bear upon the thin leather rein succeeds in breaking it, 
and giving the horse a sharp cut with his whip, sends 
him flying after his mate. 

“ How for ourselves !” he exclaims, as a dash of rain 
strikes in our faces. “ Under the bluff, quick I” 

We hurry to a shelter under the great overhanging 
rocks, and crouch under their shadow, while the storm 
howls and roars and beats with fury about and above 
us. The road we have travelled is soon a sheet of 
water rushing madly down the mountains, fretting 
and breaking and roaring as the sharp rocks bar its 
course. The trees from the bluff overhead are bent 
so low we can see the boughs sweep quickly across 
the rocks before the next wind swings them into place 
again. 

Oh, it is frightful I” I exclaim, stopping my ears to 
shut out the noise of the crashing, and drawing farther 
under the rock to avoid the dashing rain. 

“Are you afraid?” asks Lincoln. 

“ I am always afraid of storms,” I answer, trembling 
in expectation of another crash. “ Oh I” A great rock 
rolls from the bluff above, and I scream with fright. 

“ It will be over soon,” says Lincoln, in the effort to 
reassure me. “ And really there is no danger. Why, 
how you tremble !” 


436 THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE CUMBERLAND. 


He takes my hands from my face and holds them 
both in a strong, firm clasp. 

“We are safe here, Little One, Hell — A peal of 
thunder drowns his words, and he draws me weeping 
to his bosom. 

“ Hellie, darling,” he whispers, “ the storm shall not 
harm my brave little woman. Hush, love ! be still.” 

He holds me fast in his arms, close to his heart, 
while the storm spends its strength ; and at last, when 
the winds lull, and the rain ceases, and the blood-red 
of sunset crimsons the west, he lifts my face, looks into 
my eyes, and says, — ■ 

“ My darling, the storm is over ; the clouds are gone, 
and there is peace on the mountains now. I have held 
you safe while the storm was beating ; shall I hold you 
still ? Always ? Or will you need me no longer, now 
that the storm is over ? I love you, Hellie.” 

And I answer, with my arms about his neck, my 
cheek upon his bosom, — 

“ The sun cannot always shine ; the clouds will come, 
and — there may be other storms.” 

“ Eemember,” he says, looking steadily into my eyes, 
wliile his arms hold me fast, “ I am a ‘ Yankee.'' ” 

“ And I reply, as his lips touch mine, “ I remember 
only that I love you.” 

“You were to me the world’s interpreter. 

The man that taught me Nature’s unknown tongue. 

And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words and sung. 
******* 

“And what am I to you ? A steady hand 
To hold a steadfast heart to trust withal : 

Merely a man that loves you, and will stand 
By you, whate’er befall.” 


GOOD-BY. 


437 


CHAPTEE XLII. 

GOOD-BT. 

• 

“ 0 Land, what light unbroken 
Lies on thy thousand hills ! 

Our country ! 0 land of glory, 

Thy name our bosom thrills.” 

“ Come to the rear car and let ns take a last look at 
the Cumberlands,” says Lincoln, and we follow him to 
the platform. 

It is ended, — the glad, good summer. The golden 
sunshine kissing to rapture the gray peaks, the leafy 
forests, the strong mountain, all lie behind us. 

It has been so good, so wild and free and beautiful ; 
we do not leave it, the dear old mountain, without 
some tears. 

Down we go through rock-beds and over coal-pits ; 
out from the groves and temples of Mont Eagle ; out 
from the shades of classical Sewanee. Down from the 
heights of blue mist and amber cloud, and shadows 
that creep westward. Down, under the frown of the 
cliffs, through the forest crown of the mountains. 

“ Is it not glorious ?” cries Blanche. ‘‘ Let us wave 
it good-by, the grand old sun-kissed mountain.” 

We are only too ready to obey the command; as'the 
train creeps like a winding serpent around the moun- 
tain curves we wave, as if to a friend, a last farewell, a 
God bless you, God speed you light, God’s peace be 
upon you, to the dear old Cumberlands. 

I turn to Lincoln as we round the last curve, and 
point toward the land we are leaving, — 

37* 


438 the sunny side of the CUMBERLAND. 


‘‘ There is magnificence, wealth, health, and happi- 
ness, if it were only known.” 

And he answers, — 

“ It will be soon ; the lamps are already lighted ; the 
world will see them as the blaze grows stronger.” 

“ Amen I” J whisper ; and the train sweeps on and 
the mountains lie behind us. 

“ And if once all the lamps that are lighted 
Shall merrily blaze in a line, 

Wide over the vale and the mountain 
What a girdle of glory will shine 1 
How all the dark places will brighten ; 

How the shadows will up and away ; 

How the earth will ring out in her gladness- 
And hail the Millennial Hay !” 


THE END. 


. 21 8 

• ^ 











^ ^ ' s'' 'O' ''O ' b ^ n 

52 '-1 - a"^ "■ '' 'P ^ . V- 







■\ -r. '' 


0 ^ K 

; ■""'a v^' 

xO°^. *^»^= ,<(5 

yN ^J^UV'nSn^ ‘ 

' ^<fO^ O^s 'vVC" V ^ 

^ r <1 ^ * V- <? ?1 ^ 

/I c'*^ ■* ^V> \X^ ‘ rlV^/^^^" /T^ 

o ^ rCuSS/A o 

v-^' . ' \'i % °o 0°^ .‘“ 

'-. -o 0^ “' 




^ ' s, 

V^ ^ '' *' 0 / -xO' <, " 

^ .fA^6 A. ^ ^ c^ 


O 

'?/•- ^ n . .' ■* Jj 
- 0° 


•<^' *> 

✓ 



^ \V 'J^ 

^ \V 


o 


'^t> 

,#' J/ % ^o 

.N ^ . 


.0 0 


NJ r ^ ^ i> it a\ 

0 0 , ^ 

^ 0^ : 

^ * <q 5 '^ci' ^ 

* cf- __ 

.V 


o o' 


^ -'^ - ^r> J\'' ^ ^#^>*t^TI<'^■ * '^V \\^ 

o -' '5^^ 

" a"^" •^#. °. vBS>*^ • v- ■%?■ 

16 >' A y 

/ ’^ \ s <'\ O ^ 0 I> V ^0 <r^ ' / ly A " 

** ,X^ ^ rO’ <'5 

.'■is A -i ^ 0 

■>= - *'> \v,il'«k '', Ko .is 



^ '"A- vi> 





*y‘ V 

o 





